When Worlds Collide
by LaceyBird
Summary: A collection of post series one-shots. Taking a quick peek into Molly and Charles' life outside the Army. No particular order, although I'll try to keep them somewhat organised.
1. Our First 'Christmas'

**AN: I tried to stay away, but I think my Muse has been on the redbull, or something, because she just wont leave me alone! So here it is, another one shot with my favourite couple. Plotless fluff, really! **

**Please leave reviews! I do read them all, although it's hard to reply to each. I'm a single Mum, so it's hard to get in the time to write _and _reply, but please know that they are what keep me going, inspire me to write and post. **

**Much love,**

**GB **

**xox**

**Our First 'Christmas'**

Molly taps her knuckles against the wooden door, shivers as the mid-January cold bites at her nose, stings her cheeks, gnaws at frozen fingers. She's practically bobbing with excitement as she waits for the door to open, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she waits on the step, a minute feeling like an eternity.

Her heart stops when she hears the lock click, face splits into a grin as the door handle turns, and she tries to peek around the gap, too impatient to wait for it to fully open before she can set eyes on him.

She stills, smile falls from her mouth, swallows hard.

"You must be Private Dawes," the older woman smiles down at Molly, silver hair pinned back with decorative slides, her royal blue cardigan and matching dress mostly concealed by the black apron fastened around her neck and waist.

"Yes, Ma'am," Molly nods, swallows against the nerves of being confronted with Charles' Mother for the first time, whilst she wears her ripped jeans and oversized parka coat. She shoves her cold hands deep into her pockets.

"Thank goodness, I could do with a hand in the kitchen," Mrs James says, turning back inside, leaving Molly on the doorstep, peering in. "Well come in dear, you're letting the heat out." Molly hurries inside, embarrassed at having been told off already, promptly closes the door behind her and follows after the home owner, trainers slopping on her feet, quickly peers into the empty living room and dining room as she goes, is surprised to see the dining table all laid out, with napkins and silver cutlery and candles. She mentally kicks herself for not making more of an effort.

She steps into the kitchen, is immediately assaulted by the most amazing smell of vegetables and meat, gravy and herbs, and something sweet, like rich chocolate or moist cake. Her mouth waters and stomach grumbles as she casts her eyes over platters of trimmed pork and carved lamb, roasted potatoes and honey glazed parsnips. She suddenly feels as if she's intruding.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know -" she begins, wonders when the guests are supposed to be arriving, makes a mental note to never try and surprise Charles with an unexpected visit, again.

"Take your coat off, dear." Mrs James orders as she wipes her hands down the front of her apron, tosses a pair of oven gloves across the island counter at her. Molly hesitates only for a second, and then she's pulling her arms from the sleeves, tosses it over one of the breakfast bar stools, followed by unravelling her scarf from her neck, because she's never one to say no to someone who's asking for her help. "The stuffing needs to come out of the oven, and the yorkshire's need to go in," Mrs James instructs as she moves the platters of already plated food into a large, heated cabinet – a food warmer. Molly nods, slides the gloves onto her hands and pulls open the large, glass oven door, the rush of heat warming her stinging cheeks and numb, red nose. She slides the dish of stuffing balls towards Mrs James, before shoving the muffin tray full of batter in, quickly closes the door to avoid too much heat loss, and is impressed with herself that she can officially say she's cooked something other than pizza or chicken nuggets.

"So, Private Dawes," Mrs James starts once they're both facing each other again, Molly sliding the oven gloves from her warming hands. "Or do you prefer Miss?"

"Molly is fine, Mrs James," she smiles, leaning against the island counter only to have a saucepan of yellow chunks passed to her, along with a masher. She looks down into the pan, the puzzlement clearly on her face as Mrs James, says,

"It's swede, Dear. It needs mashing."

"Right," Molly nods, a little embarrassed, but does as she's told, presses the masher down hard, is careful not to leave any lumps, as if her mashing skills are somehow linked to her personality, as if their disapproval of the job at hand leads to the disapproval of their married son's girlfriend. She inwardly cringes, tells herself to never class herself as that again. "So, is Charlie upstairs?" Because having him here with her would make this situation a helluva lot less awkward.

"No, he's gone to pick up his sister from the station," Mrs James shakes her head as she stirs something on the stove.

"He has a sister?" Molly's eyebrows shoot up, her hand stills, voice an octave higher.

"Yes, Emily. She's three years younger than him, didn't he say?"

"He's never mentioned her," Molly shakes her head, wonders what else he's kept from her, as she returns to mashing.

"What about you, Molly? Do you have any siblings?"

"Three of each," she answers, looking up. "The house is constantly a mess, you can't get a word in edgeways, and you can't hear yourself think most of the time, but I love the little bleeders." She smiles fondly. "I'm the oldest," because she rambles when she's nervous.

"Sounds lovely," Mrs James smiles, eases some of the tension in Molly's shoulders. She jumps as the back door opens, and a short, plump man with white hair steps over the threshold, his cheeks rosey and eyes watering. He walks with a small limp, Molly notes, the door closing behind him. "George, this is Miss Dawes."

"Molly," she corrects, when icy blue eyes find hers. George smiles, pulls a thick, gardening glove from his hand and extended to towards her, shuffling closer so she can reach. She takes his hand, large and rough against her small, moisturised one. "You must be Mr. James."

"Call me George," he insists. "Catherine's been looking forward to meeting you." Molly flicks her eyes to Mrs James, her cheeks pinking and eyes rolling, before grinning back at George.

"It's lovely to finally meet you both," she says, honestly, releasing his hand.

"I'm going to wash up, Cathy. It's bloody nippy out there, those roses might not make it another year."

"Oh, it would be a shame to lose them," Catherine says, face saddened a little at the news, before her eyes catch the time on the clock above the back door. "Oh, look at the time, we're running behind."

George rolls his eyes at his wife, earns a small chuckle from Molly as he shuffles through the kitchen, up the hallway towards the staircase she's only had the chance to climb once.

"Here, place these on the table, would you, Molly?" Catherine asks, taking a dish of broccoli and one of carrots from the warming cabinet and sliding them towards her. "They're hot, you'll need your gloves." Molly nods, slides each oven glove back onto her hand before picking up the ceramic dishes and heading for the dining room.

It's the first time she's stepped foot in here, really appreciated it's beauty. There's a charm about the place, colours rich and festive, large, heavy drapes frame the frosty windows. Red and golds compliment the long, glass table, the silver cutlery and candle holders, red napkins and cheesy Santa costume seat covers on the chairs. There's a subtle hint of cloves and clementines, sweet and spicy, and Molly's sure all they need is a crackling fire for it to look like a scene straight out of a traditional movie. She places the dishes down in the center of the table, returns to the kitchen, only to have more platters and dishes waiting for her. She does the trips a few times, the table slowly filling with delicious foods; meats and vegetables, potatoes and parsnips, roasted chestnuts and cranberry sauce, several jugs of gravy. Molly's stomach grumbles loudly as she returns back to the kitchen for a final time, earns a smile from Mrs. James.

"Are you hungry?"

"Hank Marvin," Molly admits, can't remember the last time she ate a proper meal. Sure, last night her Mum had ordered a dominoes, but she'd barely touched it, too knackered from the flight home, and too excited about her trip to Bath.

"Then it's a good thing there's a place for you at our table."

"Me?" Molly asks, frowning, because she hadn't expected to stay for food, feels guilty enough for intruding as it is. Catherine is about to reply when the front door swings open, bangs against the wall, and a small boy charges down the hallway, face smiling, arms splayed wide as if he's an aeroplane and he's flying. Molly jumps out of the way before he knocks her from her feet, watches as Catherine catches him and scoops him into her arms, grips him tight and leaves pink lipstick marks all over his cheeks as she kisses him.

"I missed you, Grandma," he says into her shoulder, squeezing tight, and it's not until she replies with "I missed you, too, Sam," that Molly clicks, glances back down towards the front door, heart hammering, as she waits for _him_ to come through it.

And then he does.

Molly can't explain the way she feels the second his eyes lock onto hers, wide with surprise at first, before his mouth is splitting into a massive grin. Her heart stammers, struggles to keep up as adrenaline and desire pulse through her veins, her stomach squeezes tight, releasing millions of butterflies, and then she's heading for him, and he's heading for her, both taking to a jog until their bodies collide in the middle of the hallway. She holds into him as everything around them melts away, wraps her arms around his shoulders, fists his shirt in her hands, refuses to let go as he snakes his arms around her waist, lifts her from her feet and twirls, whispers, "Molly" into her neck, sending shivers through her body, warming her down to the bone.

"Ungh, get a room."

Molly comes crashing back to reality, releases her hold and steps back, cheeks warming as she looks at the woman – unmistakably the sister – standing behind Charles, her arms folded, distaste marring her face as her eyes slowly trail from Molly's head all the way to her toes and back again.

"Hi, I'm Molly," she introduces, forces herself to be polite for Charles' sake, offers a hand and a small smile. Counts to three before she drops it, awkwardly, brings it to rest on her hip, thumb hooked through the belt loop of her jeans.

"Oh, I know who you are," Emily almost snarls, hands stay tucked in her arms, nostrils flare slightly.

"Okay," Molly breathes, drags the word out, averts her eyes back up to the man at her side, his hand at the small of her back.

"Em," he says, one eye brow raised, a challenge or reminder, Molly isn't sure, but the warning is clear. Emily rolls her eyes, gives one more look of disapproval before sauntering passed them, disappears into the dining room.

"What's her problem," Molly huffs, turning so her body presses again his, just the way she likes it.

"Ignore her. She's been a bit touchy since I mentioned my divorce," Charles says, looking down at her, hands resting on her hips.

"Yeah, well, she's lucky I didn't nut her one," Molly mutters, moving her hands up over his chest, rests them at his neck, stroking at the nape. Charles smiles at that, or her touch, she can't decide, but it's still the best damn smile she's ever seen, the best damn thing she's seen all day.

"I appreciate your level of restraint, Dawes," he mumbles, for only her to hear, the way her fingers brush against his skin sending him wild with desire. "I wasn't expecting you."

"Well, surprise," she grins, reaches up on tippy toes to press her lips on to his, soft and sweet, their first kiss in just over three months, earns a groan of annoyance when she pulls away. Charles glances over her head, before grabbing hold of Molly's hand and pulling her into the living room, closes the door behind him before he closes the gap between them, cradles her face in his hands, thumb stroking jawline, eyes meeting hers before he leans in and kisses her, deep and slow, like they have all the time in the world to make up for the months she's been away. They break apart, both eager for air, foreheads resting against each other, drinking each other in.

"Miss me?" Molly breathes, and Charles smirks a little, moves back just enough to get a better look at her. And then his mouth is back on her, ravaging her the way he does when he has so much to say, but can't find the words, hopes this is enough to make her understand, to read between the lines. And she does, even after only being together, physically, for the shortest amount of time, knows him inside out and vice versa. She moans in approval as she opens her mouth to deepen the kiss, arches her body into his, hands moving up into his hair, pulls gently as his hands press into her back, bringing her impossibly closer. And then they're breaking apart, he's pulling away, eager to get lost in her but remembers where they are, smiles down at her as she whimpers in protest, tucks a few loose tendrils of brown hair behind her ear.

"Just a little," he shrugs casually, thumb stroking her cheek, staring into eyes dark with arousal.

"Ditto," Molly breathes, her heart still hammering at their kiss, tries to slow her breathing; an impossible mission when he's towering over her, all manly and protective, looking at her with those smouldering eyes.

The living room door swings open, and they jump apart, Molly fidgeting with her hair and Charles, straightening his shirt.

"Dinner's ready," Sam grins at them, too young and niave to even hazard a guess at what his dad and girlfriend were up to two short minutes ago.

"Great, I'm starving," Charles grins, before holding out his hand for Molly to take, leads her into the dining room where the family is tucking in to large platters of food, takes her place next to Charles, feels at home.

"Goodnight," Catherine James pops her head around the living room door frame, offers a smile and a small wave.

"Goodnight Mrs," Molly starts, corrects herself when she gets a scowl. "Cathy." The older lady smiles again, before disappearing, and Molly can hear her climbing the stairs, her slippers scuffing against the carpet runner. She focuses back on the DVD playing on the TV – The Holiday – for all of two seconds before Charles is coming into the living room to join her.

"Mum and Dad have gone to bed, and Em's in the study doing some emails for work," he says quietly, moving over to join Molly, who's stretched across the couch. He lifts her legs to drape over his lap. "And Sam is finally out for the count."

"He's a cute kid," Molly smiles, warmth swelling in her chest at the admiration and pride Charles has for his son.

"He is," Charles nods, playing with the fraying denim around a rip in her jeans at her thigh. "Hey, thanks for coming."

"Any time," Molly shrugs, because she couldn't imagine spending her time with anyone else. "I'm sorry I intruded on the family dinner."

"You didn't," Charles smiles, shakes his head lightly.

"I did," Molly scoffs, "Your Mum had it all set out lovely for Sam. It must have sucked, not seeing him for Christmas."

"I did," he says, his smiles still on his mouth, eyes twinkling as Molly frowns in confusion.

"So why the re-enactment?"

"It was for you," Charles shrugs one shoulder casually, and Molly shifts to sit up better, puzzlement creasing her forehead.

"Me?" Because she just doesn't get it.

"You missed Christmas this year, so I wanted to do this for you. Your mum called a few days again and told me you'd be home, that you were planning on surprising my with your visit, so I thought I'd surprise you back." His smile widens, proud of himself, and Molly's lost for words, isn't sure how to react, because the nicest thing anyone has ever done for her was perhaps buy her a kebab after getting her trollied on a night out. His smile falters for a second, eyebrows twitch, as if the confidence behind his grand gesture has suddenly deflated, left him doubting his way of welcome her home from her latest tour. "I'm sorry I threw all of my family on you, and Emily's hard work but she'll come round eventually, and Mum really does like yo -"

"Shut your cake hole," Molly orders, before shifting so she can straddle his lap, takes his face in her hands and crashes her mouth down on to his, this time it's her turn to tell him everything she can't say. He moves his hands around her back, up under her shirt, as she runs her hands through his hair. They break apart, breathing heavy. "Thanks, Captain." Likes the way his eyes darken when she calls him that, how he tugs her closer, even as she presses her body against his, jeans rubbing against jeans.

"How long are you back for?" Charles asks, closing the gap between their bodies, leaves a trails of wet kisses long her jawline, moves to her neck where teeth graze soft skin.

"Oh, at least until Valentines," Molly purrs, laughs when Charles head moves back to check her face, as if he thinks he's heard her wrong.

"That's a whole month away," he says, and Molly laughs again, rolls her eyes.

"You ain't half a plonker sometimes, you know that?" She leans forward, brushes her lips against his one, two, three times, earns a low growl in response. "A whole month," she nods, heart speeding with arousal as his hands trail up her back, over her ribs. She reaches for the hem of his shirt, drags it over his abs, chest, tortuously slow, before pulling it over his head, tossing it aside and kissing just below his collarbone.

"That's a lot of time to together," he says, his voice husky as she runs her nails up and down his body, lick, sucks and nips at the spot just below his right ear, makes a sound to show she's listening. "A month's worth."

"I know," Molly says, straightening up. "You'll be sick of the sight of me by the time I go back. You'll be begging me to leave."

"I never want to let you go," Charles says, and Molly stills at that, heart stutters, because he has such a way with words, the honesty raw and open, the only way he knows how to be.

"Not even if I -"

"Not ever," Charles cuts her off, because he simply can't imagine a life without Molly Dawes in it. She smiles, kisses him again, sweet and tender.

"Well, good job you're stuck with me, 'en," she whispers and his mouth twitches, before he's shifting their bodies in one swift movement, so she's lead on the couch and he's covering her with his bare chest. She laughs, head thrown back in amusement, the sound filling the large, quiet room. He stares down at her, and she catches the flash of dimples and teeth as she smiles back up at him, the last of his deep, thundering chuckle fading away as she runs her hands up his back.

"Thanks for coming back to me, Molly," he whispers, low enough only for her to hear, the sincerity and vulnerability in his tone enough to knock the air from her chest, as she stares up at him. She smiles, nods once, runs her hands through his dirty blonde hair as he dips down to press his mouth to hers, fingers sliding under the hem of her top to brush against the soft skin of her waist. She shivers, arches her body closer to him, clutches at his shoulders, doesn't want to let go.

"Hey," she murmurs between kisses, nips at his lower lip. "Merry Christmas." He laughs, deep and free, rumbles his chest, and then he's kissing her again, with everything he's got, and she knows they aren't going to make it to the bedroom.

**AN: Replaced 'Rory' with 'Sam', because even if I do prefer the name Rory, I don't own him, the BBC does. **


	2. Destiny Lies

**AN: All rights belong to BBC.**

**Just a one-shot that popped into my head.**

**Please read and review. **

**Unbeta'd so all mistakes are my own. **

**Destiny Lies**

Charles James wakes when he feels her side of the bed shift, when he reaches across to pull her into his arms to find she isn't there. It takes a moment - a few long seconds – for his eyes to adjust to the dark bedroom, the morning sun still too low in the sky for it's warming rays to penetrate through the thick, heavy drapes his Mother had insisted she hang three long years ago. A quick glance at the glowing clock tells him it's a little after 4am – only three hours after she'd crawled into bed next to him.

"Dawes?" He speaks quietly, a little above a hushed whisper, even if they're the only two in the room, in the large, old house – his parents had vacated the property a week ago to take a long needed break in Aspen, and James doesn't doubt for a second that they'd planned the last minute trip so he could have some alone time with his tortured girlfriend. He reaches out, pats against the mattress, seeking a hand, or arm, or anything.

"Shh, go back to sleep," she returns equally as quiet, her back to him as she perches on the edge of the bed, pulling one of his large t-shirts over her head, drowning her small frame in green cotton. He shakes his head, even if she can't see it, because he can't now, not when she's awake, leaving his side. He moves onto his side, props himself up on an elbow as she leans forward, almost out of sight, tying the trainers she's recently taken to keeping next to the night stand. He feels his brow slip into a frown, concern etched in each crease, is glad she isn't looking at him to see it.

"Are you okay?" he asks, knows the answer he's going to get, because it's the same answers she's been giving him for days now, since they'd arrived back in Bath.

"I'm fine," she says, exactly as he'd expected, as she stands up, snatches the iphone from the bedside table and plugging in a set of earphones. "I'm going for a run."

"Want me to come?" He's already pushing the bed sheets back, ready to swing his legs out from under them, when she turns to face him, shaking her head, expression blank.

"No, go back off. I didn't mean to wake you."

"The PT will be good for my leg."

"I wont be long," she says, inserting the earphones into her ears and jacking the music up as loud as it'll go, drowning the world out.

"I'll do some breakfast -" Charles begins, but she's already taken off, disappeared behind the closing bedroom door and heading down the grand staircase, and he's not even sure if she heard him.

She trudges through the front door two hours later, just as the sky begins to transition into a light, summer blue, cheeks flushed, panting heavy, water bottle empty. Charles glances up from the book he's tried his hardest to distract himself with, waits for her to announce herself, to call out for him, but she doesn't even acknowledge him as she passes the living room and heads straight for the large, white kitchen. He waits for all of three seconds before he puts his book down on the glass coffee table – spine up so he doesn't lose his page – and follows after her.

"I made pancakes," he leads with, when she spins on her heel to face him, doesn't offer so much as a smile as a greeting.

"I'm not hungry," Molly says before taking a large gulp from her newly refilled water bottle.

"You must be -" Charles takes a step closer to her, doesn't like the purple shadows under her eyes, the way her cheeks bones seem more prominent, her skin almost translucent.

"Well I'm not," Molly insists, pulling the hair tie from her pony tail, releasing brown locks that smell of the lavender shampoo he'd bought for her.

"You didn't eat yesterday," he reminds her, as if she's forgotten, as if she's been forgetting for the past four days.

"Because I wasn't hungry."

"I'm worried about you, Dawes."

"Don't be," she shrugs, as if it's that simple. "I'm going for a shower." Charles sighs, steps aside for her to pass him, longs to reach out and catch her by the hand, to promise it will all be okay as he holds onto her shrinking frame, misses the way she fits against his body, her curves in his edges, a perfect match. He watches as she disappears out of sight, before sighing, grabbing the plate of two, cold pancakes he'd left out for her, wraps them in cling film and slides them onto a shelf in the fridge, just in case she wants them later.

She stays in the shower longer than usual, and it's not until the ornate grandfather clock's minute hand ticks past the 2 for a second time, that Charles begins to worry. He turns the volume on the television down to the lowest, strains his ears to listen for any sign of movement; a creak of a floor board, wardrobe doors banging, bed frame squeaking. He gets up when all he can hear is the sound of water running, splashing against the tiles walls and shower base, running down an ancient drain. He stands at the bottom of the staircase, calls up to Molly once, waits for a reply. He starts to ascend the stairs, two steps at a time, when he doesn't get one, ignoring the barely there ache in his calf as he moves, images of her passed out and face down in the shower haunting him, He rushes through the bedroom, uses all of his restraint not to kick down the on suite door to the bathroom but to tap his knuckles against the wood three times.

"Molly?" He calls, forehead resting against the panelling, waits for five, quick breaths before trying again. "Mol?"

"Go away," she replies, voice quiet, almost drowned out by the running water, sounds congested.

"Mol, are you okay?"

"I said go away," she repeats, louder this time, but Charles doesn't miss the way her voice trembles, is an octave higher then normal. He waits, listens as she shuts the water off, closes his eyes as his hand rests on the handle, resisting the urge to barge in, to grab hold of her and never let her go.

"Dawes -" he begins, his heart breaking along with hers, even if she wont admit it. He startles, jumps back, as the bathroom door yanks open, quickly, revealing a puffy eyed, red nosed, very simple looking Molly Dawes, clutching at the giant bath towel she's wrapped around her small frame.

"Leave me alone," she says, looking up at him through wet lashes, eyes glassy. "Please," soft and desperate.

"Okay," Charles agrees, nods, and then he's retreating as the door closes again, is unsure how he's going to fix something that's going to be eternally broken.

She spends the day on the sofa, curled up under a thin blanket, eyes empty and face blank as she watches crappy day time TV, only getting up for bathroom trips or to get a drink of water. Her stomach growls, loud enough for Charles to peer over his book from the opposite side of the room, but not enough for her to give in, to get up and eat something. He offers to make her lunch a couple of times, and even though she shakes her head at each offer, he does anyway and places the plate of food on the table in front of her. She doesn't give in; it's still there at 6pm, when he's getting up to make dinner.

"Do you fancy anything?" he asks, and those green eyes look at him, before she's unwrapping herself from the thin cover and pushing herself into a sitting position, the movements sluggish.

"No, thank you."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm gonna go for a swim," she says, standing up, stretches out tired limbs. "It's quiet at the gym at this time. I can get a few laps in before everyone else piles in." She attempts a smile, even though it doesn't reach her eyes. Charles appreciates the effort anyway, doesn't push any harder as she grabs her gym kit and a jacket from the hallway and heads out the front door. Charles eats alone, again, but plates up a meal for her anyway and slides it next to the untouched pancakes.

It's almost midnight when she creeps into the bedroom, barefooted and stripped down to her underwear, hair damp and smelling of the tropical shampoo she keeps only for the gym showers. He pretends to be asleep, doesn't stir when she slips under the sheets, shifts to be close enough he can almost feel her. He waits for a few minutes before he chances a peek, feels a little relieved to see her eyes closed, breathing shallow but rhythmic, even if her lashes flutter and her brow is creased. He closes his own eyes, allows himself to drift off, too.

He wakes an hour later when he reaches for her, but the bed is empty, sheets tossed aside as if she's battled with them. He jolts up, panic creeping into his brain as he listens hard, just in case she's just popped to the bathroom. There's nothing though, so he throws his covers back, gets out of bed and heads for the stairs, searching for a light to signify which room she's occupying. He spots a faint, blue glow through the crack of the living room door as he descends down the stairs, one step at a time, giving away Molly's location. He takes a deep breath, heads for the room, slips through the door without bothering to close it behind him. Molly startles, looks up from her sport on the sofa, where she's curled in on herself, wearing another of his t-shirts, one hand covering her mouth, the other grasping onto her phone tightly, screen bright. Charles covers the distance in three footsteps, slides onto the sofa next to her, glances at the phone to see the photo of Molly and Smurf huddled together in full kit, smiling brightly, holding their thumbs up. He remembers snapping the picture for her, just before they departed for their R&R.

"Couldn't sleep?"

"Did I wake you?"

"No," he only half lies. "Hungry? I can warm something -"

"God, I _ain't_ hungry! What are you, a fat feeder or something?"

"I'm sorry," Charles quickly apologises, leaning back against the piles of scatter cushions, pretends he can't see the wet trails down her cheeks, that he isn't aching to reach across and wipe them away. "Molly -"

"I'm fine, okay?" she snaps before he can finish, and he takes a deep breath.

"No, you're not."

"What? You a trained shrink now, or what? 'Cause you ain't much else any more, are ya?" Charles recoils at the jibe, the assault of words stinging a little, even as he tries to remind himself she's grieving, that she's taking it out on him, because there's no one else to take it. Molly sighs, rubs a hand over her face, before looking back at him. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean -"

"I know," Charles nods, understanding, even if he wonders, only a little, if she's regretting his decision to resign his commission so he could be with her, so she could be with him.

"It's just – I don't know."

"I do," Charles says as he leans forward. "You've lost someone you love, and you're grieving. It's okay." He triggers a new wave of tears and quiet sobs as he speaks, this time she doesn't try to hide them from him, cries openly and James is sure he can hear her heart shattering.

"It's just so unfair," she cries, opening up for the first time, dropping her phone so she can't see the picture that's etched into her brain, anyway. "He made it through the tour. It just doesn't make any sense. What was the point?"

"I know," Charles nods, his own eyes misting, hand reaching out for one of her balled fists, gently uncurls her fingers so he can entwine them with his, feels a little relief when she gives a gentle squeeze; their first skin to skin contact since the trip to Newport to bury their friend. He waits for her to continue, even if it takes a few minutes for her to find her voice, to say what she's been feeling, what she's been trying to hide from him.

"It's just so fucking unfair," she states, anger leaking into her tone as the sobs quieten. "He was so young, he wasn't done. I saved his arse twice on the battlefield, for what? For fate, or destiny or whatever, to just come and fucking get him, anyway?"

"I know," Charles says again, pulls her against him so he can trace soothing circles on her back, can smell her hair and feel the warmth of her body.

"I just – he was my best friend. And now he's just..._gone," _she says, barely audible, her voice trembling as she melts into his touch, the admission of grief easier in the darkness.

"I know, babe. I know," Charles soothes, pulls her onto his lap so he can hold her tight, his embrace enough to loosen her stiff shoulders as she rests her head just under his chin.

"I'm really gonna miss that Welsh wanker," she sighs, barely above a whisper, as she reaches up to dry her cheeks, the outburst of emotion leaving her feeling utterly spent.

"Me too," He nods, a single tear leaving his eye and rolling down his cheek. She moves away, just enough for her to look up at him through wet, clumpy lashes.

"I'm sorry for being such a bitch."

"It's fine."

"No, it's not," Molly shakes her head, chin wobbling. "I've been such a sad cow, and you've been all patient, and nice and -"

"Hey, it's okay," Charles insists, strokes a loose hair from her face, marvels at how simply perfect she is to him.

"No," she frowns, "You lost him too."

"We both did, Mols," he nods, before leaning forward to press his lips to the top of her head. She closes her eyes at the touch, can't believe she's left it so long, that she hasn't craved his body the same way he craves hers. "Promise me you wont bottle anything up again? You have to come to me with this stuff, it's what I'm here for."

"I know, I will," Molly agrees before looking away, focuses on a graze just above her knee. "It's just, I didn't know what to say, or how to deal, and I've never had _you _in my life before. I'm so used to being alone in this sort of shit."

Charles nods, runs a finger along her jawline, stops under her chin and tilts it up, locks his eyes on hers, before reaching down to brush his lips against hers, one, two, three times. She moans, wraps her arms around his neck, entangles her fingers in his hair as she tries to shift her body, press closer to him. He pulls away when her stomach growls, smiles softly.

"Hungry now?"

"A little," she admits. "But I'm more tired."

"Okay, come on," he says, scooping her up in his arms, and standing from the sofa. "Sleep, and then food."

"Thanks," Molly sighs, resting her head against his chest as he carries her up the stairs and into the bedroom. He isn't surprised to find her dozing by the time he manages to reach the bed, is almost asleep as he lays her down and covers her with the sheets.

"Night, Mol," he whispers, straightening up.

"Charlie?" She breathes, barely above a whisper, voice full of sleep, eyes stay closed. "Thanks for choosing me."

"Any time, Dawes. Now get some sleep," he smiles, before moving to his side of the bed, slipping under the sheets and wrapping his arm around her waist, pulling her into him.

"Yes, Boss," she sighs; a sound of contentment, he thinks.

He wakes before she does, the sun high in the mid morning sky, smiles when he has to untangle his body from hers. He leaves her as she begins to stir, takes the trainers from beside her night stand to the kitchen with him, tosses them in the bin before he begins to prepare breakfast for her. He makes an extra serving of pancakes, a fruit salad and adds two slices of toast, and doesn't say a word as he watches her scoff the lot.

**AN: Edited to replace 'James' with 'Charles', now that I've come to terms with his first name. Ha!**


	3. Happy Birthday

**AN: Just a cute little oneshot. All rights to BBC.**

**Please read and review. **

**GB xox**

**Happy Birthday**

She hears the floorboards creaking above her and she drops the lighter, flies towards the stairs, slippers drifting across the tiled floor as she swings her self around the base of the stairs.

"Wait! Don't come down here!"

Charles freezes on the top step of the grand staircase, eyes wide as Molly charges for him, arms splayed wide to block his path, taking two steps at a time.

"Go back to bed," she orders when she reaches the step below him, shoves his bare chest gently.

"Molly, what's going on?" Charles asks, brow furrowing as he tries to see past the bobbing woman before him, assess the situation. All seems clear. "Is everything okay?"

"It's fine," she nods frantically, pushing against solid muscle, again. "Just go back."

"Okay," he nods slowly, the word drawn out, watches her as if he's waiting for her to explode, as if he thinks the realities of the past two tours in Afghanistan have finally hit home, as if she's having some sort of mental breakdown. He takes a slow step back onto the landing, retreating as instructed, as Molly makes a shooing gesture with her hands.

"_Go_," she orders, hops up the three steps to the landing, physically grabs hold of James' arms and turns him herself, before giving one, final, firm shove towards his – _their_ – bedroom.

"Okay, okay, I'm going," he says, hands raised in surrender as he cautiously heads back for the room, throwing the occasional worried glance over his shoulder. Molly waits until he's disappeared down the hall and into their bedroom before turning on her heel and hurrying back down the stairs, passes the grand living room and spacious dining room on her way to the large, white kitchen. She picks the lighter up from the floor, drops it on the tray she'd spent an hour preparing, before leaving the kitchen with it; the mess can wait.

"Are you back in bed?" she yells from the foot of the stairs, heavy tray balancing in her small hands, only proceeds to climb the steps when she hears him yell back, slightly exasperated,

"Yes, Dawes!"

"Okay, close your eyes," she issues another order as she reaches the hallway, carefully placing one foot in front of the other, her shoulders tense and back straight as she tries not to spill anything or drop something, or trip over, or anything else that could ruin this perfectly thought out plan.

"What's going on, Molly?" His voice, still tense with puzzlement gets louder as she closes in on him, and she stops, just short of the doorway, out of sight.

"Are they closed?"

"Yeah, they're closed," he sighs, like he doesn't want to play along, but he does anyway.

"Okay," she peeps around the frame, just to double check, before stepping over the threshold and waiting. "Open!" she commands from her spot in the doorway. He does as she says, slowly peels back his lids, finds her eyes instantly, before he trails his gaze down to her wide, toothy grin, and then down to the tray in her hands. "Happy Birthday!"

"Oh, Mols," he groans, tossing the sheets back so he can swing his legs out of bed.

"Oh no you don't!" Molly snaps, covering the distance between them in three, long strides, places the tray on the night stand, makes sure the weight is balanced perfectly to avoid any unwanted spillages, before she pushes Charles back against the plump pillows, slides her feet out of her fluffy slipper, moves on top and straddles him, thighs squeezing to make sure he can't escape.

"Dawes -"

"Shh," she hushes, before leaning over and grabbing the plate of pancakes from the tray. Charles rolls his eyes at the mound of fried batter smothered in whipped cream and chocolate sauce, topped with sprinkles and - at least – fresh raspberries. "Hold," she orders, and he does as he's instructed, takes the plate from her grasp, lets her be in charge for once. She leans back to the tray, grabs a lone, silver candle and the lighter she'd previously dropped. "Okay," she shifts on his lap, takes the plate back from him, sticks the candle on the top of the stack, and grins mischievously before clicking the button on the lighter, and holding the flame to the candle's wick.

"Woah," he jumps as the candle erupts into a dance of flying sparks; his very own personal firework display. He looks up into the wide, eager eyes, proud of herself for pulling this whole thing off.

"Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday to Charrrrrles, happy birthday to you," she grins, edging the plate closer, the sparks warmth heating his face. "Make a wish."

"Dawes, I don't -"

"I _said_ make a wish," she insists, shoving the plate even closer, makes him lean back to avoid getting any hairs singed. He watches her, face glowing with enthusiasm, her West Ham shirt drowning her body, brown hair loose around her shoulders, eyes bright.

"Fine," he gives in before taking in a deep breath.

"Wait," she stops him before he can release the lungful of air. "You have to close your eyes, or it wont come true." She looks at him, as if he should just know this, like it's something she does every day of her life, like it's some written law. "Hurry, before the candle burns out." He humours her, does as he's told, closes his eyes and pictures Molly at home, surrounded by her family and friends as they bring her cake, signing and laughing, the promise of living forever in their eyes even as another year passes. He smiles, takes a deep breath, opens his eyes and blows, watches as the sparks disappear in a puff of air, only to reignite again.

"Got ya!" Molly laughs, light and airy, face crinkling softly as she licks her forefinger and thumb, pinches the wick to extinguish the candle properly. Charles can't help but laugh with her, decides she's contagious, and he doesn't mind being infected. She tears her gaze from his, the admiration in his eyes enough to warm her cheeks, indicates to the tray. "I made you some sausage, bacon and eggs, and a mug of your favourite coffee – took me half hour how to suss out that machine you got. But birthday pancakes first."

"Look, thanks Dawes, but I don't eat -"

"You do today," she interrupts, eyes locking back onto his. "It's a family tradition." Charles smiles at that, something deep inside stirring, wonders if she'd inadvertently classed him as part of the family, if it was a slip of the tongue. He wont pull her up on it, though, will lock it away, somewhere safe. "Here, try some," she insists, drags her fingers through the cream and chocolate sauce, gathering a fair amount on her skin and holding up to his lips. "You'll love it."

He smirks at the invitation before he parts his lips, takes her finger into his mouth, gently sucks the cream from her skin, tongue sliding against her finger, watches as she bites her lip, her eyes darkening with desire.

"See?" she breathes when he finally releases her, her heart hammering as adrenaline pumps through her veins.

"I do," he nods, eyes sliding back to the tray of food. "If all of this is for me, what are you going to have?"

"I'll share your pancakes, d'uh," Molly rolls her eyes, as if it's that obvious, and Charles laughs, because he knows she knows he isn't going to eat them, that the sugary diet is more her thing than his. She leans across him, pushes the plate back on the tray, before straightening up, wrapping her arms around his neck and leaning in for their first kiss of the day. She soft lips are gentle against his as she tangles her fingers in his hair, arches into his body so their chests brush. He wraps his hands around her waists, pulls her into him as he deepens the kiss, tongue flicking across her lip, requesting access, but she pulls back - too soon for Charles' liking. Hell, after a kiss like that, he'd hand over the whole damned tray.

"So, 'fess up. Who told you?" Charles asks, his voice gritty with desire, as he plays with the hem of her shirt, fingers brushing against the thighs, leaving trails of goosebumps at his touch. "Mum? Dad?" Molly laughs at that, shakes her head.

"Smurf." She feels him still below her at the sound of his name, his eyes searching hers, waits for the sorrow and grief to pass over her face, but it doesn't. "He told me on our tour together," she elaborates, reaches up to smooth the worry lines on his forehead, offers a reassuring smile – a promise that she isn't about to breakdown.

"And you remembered." It's not a question, more a statement of surprise, his eyes widening for only a quick second, before they smoulder again - with lust or love, Molly isn't sure.

"Of course I did, you Numpty," Molly grins, all teeth and dimples, before moving from his lap, flopping onto the bed beside him. "Now shut your hole and dig in, before it all goes cold. Took me an age to prepare all that."

Charles shifts onto his side, leans down and presses his lip, firmly, against Molly's; rough stubble against baby soft skin, tongues clashing as she grips his shoulders, pulls him closer, wraps her legs around him as he moves between them. They break apart for breath, his hand sliding up her thigh, under her shirt, his lips brushing against hers as he whispers,

"Thank you, Dawes."

"Any time, Captain," she breathes back, arches her body into him before their lips meet again, breakfast forgotten.


	4. Moving In

**Moving In**

Charles settles back against the sofa, legs stretched out as bare feet rest upon the glass coffee table – a cheeky habit he can only get away with whilst his parents aren't around to see it – starts to flick through the planner on the SKY box, trying to find at least one of the movie titles Molly had insisted they watch before she deploys to Kenya for three months.

He looks up from the TV when he hears her come down the stairs, smiles as she walks into the living room, wearing her dark blue jeans and his favourite black tank top – because it's the one she was wearing when he first realises she was the one – and carrying her large, green duffel bag on her shoulder. His brow slips into a frown as she slides it down her arm, allows it to fall to the floor with a loud thud, signifying it really is as full as it looks, and she tries to wrack his brains for any previously mentioned plans that involve her leaving him, then panics when he begins to wonder if he's supposed to be going somewhere, too.

"Going somewhere?" he eventually asks when he comes up blank, watches as she steps over his legs with her trainers in hand, plops down on the sofa next to him.

"London," she replies, as she begins to wrestle her feet into the Nike trainers that are almost worn out. "I promised I'd see Mum before I leave for deployment."

"Oh," Charles nods, can understand the need to see her family. He shifts to sit up straighter, moves both feet to the floor and puts the sky remote on the coffee table, eyes flicking to the bag and then to Molly. "I thought they were going to visit on their way to Cardiff on Wednesday?" He can remember that much, at least, because how can he forget their plans for him to meet her parent's for the first time?

"They plan to," Molly nods, reaching down to tie her laces, before she turns to face him. "But I'm running out of clothes, so I thought I could just pop down there for a couple of nights. I'll come back with them on Wednesday."

"Or we could just go and buy some?" Charles shrugs one shoulder, as if it should be that easy. Molly shakes her head, laughing.

"I have tonnes of clothes. I ain't wasting money for the hell of it."

"Then ask your parents to bring some with them, so you don't have to leave."

"That's cute," Molly smiles, leans over to press her lips against his, smiles against his mouth. "But they have no clue when it comes to outfits."

"Okay, so they can just pack everything up and move it here."

They both still at that, the words hanging heavily in the air as silence fills the space between them. Molly swallows, her brow furrowing as she looks down into wide eyes, Charles' face a picture of shock, surprising himself with the words he's uttered. He didn't mean them, she decides, shaking her head lightly to dispel the puzzled fog, clears her throat.

"Uh, my train leaves in twenty minutes and I'm already running late," she forces out in a hurry, desperate for the awkward moment to pass, seems to jerk Charles back to reality as she rushes to her feet. But then his hand is wrapping around hers, and he's pulling her down, onto his lap.

"I mean it," he says, snaking his arms around her waist to keep her in place, his face serious, eyes intense. "Move in with me?"

"Live here?" Molly asks for clarification. "With you?"

"Yeah," he nods, shrugging one shoulder as his eyes bore into hers.

"No," Molly says, immediately, shaking her head, laughing softly.

"Why not?"

"Because," she shrugs, eyes cast around the room before finding their way back to his, as she struggles to find the words. "You...I...because."

"Not good enough."

"It wouldn't work."

"You don't know that."

"Wait, are you actually being serious?" Molly asks, searching his eyes as they stare up at her face, crinkled in amusement. She cups his face, as if it will help her look deeper into his soul. "I don't think that's a good idea," when she can find nothing but sincerity.

"Why not?"

"Because," Molly huffs, hands flying up in a dramatic fashion. "You're caviare, and I'm -" she pauses for a breath, whilst she searches for the right metaphor. "I'm a massive, greasy cheeseburger."

"I like cheeseburgers," Charles counters, smiling and Molly laughs again, before leaning down to brush her lips against his.

"No," she reiterates, before glancing at the grandfather clock standing in the far corner of the room. "I have to go, or I'm going to miss my train."

"So miss it," he says, reaching up to wrap his hand around the back of her head, pulls her into him so he can press his mouth to hers, lips moving firm and slow, smiles when he feels her melt into him, opens her mouth to deepen the kiss, allow his tongue access. And then she's pulling away for air, head resting against his, an internal battle waging as she tries to fight the urge to stay.

"I should go," she whispers, her heart rate beginning to steady even if her tummy still flutters, the tooting horn of an impatient cab driver encouraging her to leave him.

"Fine," Charles pouts, because if it makes her happy, he'll give in. She drops a kiss on the corner of his mouth, before she's pulling away, removing herself from his grasp, standing up and fixing her hair. "I'll see you in a couple of days."

"You should at least let me take you to the station."

"I called a cab, it's fine," Molly shakes her head, picking up the large bag and tossing it over her shoulder, only stumbling slightly.

"You didn't need to, I can drive."

"I know," she nods, because she does, she just didn't want to put him out, isn't used to people wanting to help her, is too used to getting on with it herself. She makes a mental note to ask him for a lift next time. "I'll see ya."

And then she's heading out the door, leaving Charles alone in a too quiet house.

"So where is he, then? This fella of yours?" Belinda asks as she moves into the kitchen, slippers dragging across the floor, bathrobe pulled tight as she reaches for a mug and tea bag.

"Back home," Molly replies, pouring the last of the Cocopop's into a bowl and adding milk, before sliding the almost empty bottle to Belinda for her cup of tea.

"In Bath?"

"Yeah, Mum. In Bath," Molly clarifies, yanking open the cutlery draw and rolling her eyes when she finds all of the spoons missing, no doubt hidden amongst the mound of washing up in the sink. She opts for a fork, instead.

"Your Dad took me to Bath once, before I had you," Belinda says, voice trailing off as her teaspoon clatters against the side of her mug noisily. "Lovely place, that. Very posh. Is your fella posh? What's his name, again?"

Molly rolls her eyes, makes her way into the living room, Belinda close behind with her dragging slippers – _scrape, scrape, scrape –_ manages to jump back and dodge being knocked on her arse as three ten year old boys charge out of the living room, barge past her and head for the stairs, making gun noises and yelling, stairs thundering as they race up them, chasing each other.

"His name is Charles. And no, he ain't posh, he just ain't like us," Molly replies, moving over to the sofa and collapses onto the end seat, rests her bowl on the arm.

"He ain't common, you mean."

"Who's common, Bel?" Dave pipes up, eyes tearing away from the news to look at his wife as she starts to fold the mound of washing on the table. Molly rolls her eyes again, shifts as something digs into her butt cheek, reaches under herself to remove a toy car. She tosses it on to the floor with the rest.

"We are," Molly answers for her, starts to mix her cereal with the milk, because she only likes her Cocopop's soggy and the milk chocolatey.

"Nah, we ain't. We're model citizen's, we are," Dave argues, winking at Belinda. "My wife's a teacher, and my eldest a war hero."

"Oh leave off Dad," Molly huffs, screwing her face up in distaste, eyes flicking from him, to the can of larger at his feet and back again. "She's a bloody teaching assistant, and I only signed up to get out of this shithole."

"So when do we get to meet this fella, then? Charlie, is it?" Belinda interrupts, before Dave can kick off at Molly, before things escalate into their very own war zone.

"Wednesday, Mum, on your way to Cardiff, remember?"

"What if I don't wanna meet him?" Dave huffs. "And why can't he come to us?"

"Because -" Molly starts, but she's cut off by the thundering stairs as the boys return, yelling and banging, throwing toys as they rush into the living room.

"Calm down, you lot!" Belinda yells, whilst Dave reaches for the TV remote to turn the volume up.

"Forget it," Molly snaps, a headache threatening to set in, as she gets up from the sofa. She takes her bowl of cereal, adds it to the mound of dishes in the kitchen before heading for the stairs. "I'm going to pack," she calls into the living room, a hint that she doesn't want to be disturbed, before taking the steps two at a time, dodging teddy bears and lego. She shuts herself in her old bedroom, collapses back on the cheap, springy mattress, and stares up at the bunk above her. She pulls her phone from her pocket, smiles at the picture of Charles she's saved as the wallpaper, unlocks the phone and googles for a national courier service.

Then, she spends the rest of the day packing.

He paces the length of the living room, phone in his hand, glancing at the clock on the wall several times. Two days has felt like two weeks, the time dragging tortuously slow, even as he busied himself with apartment hunting, and completing the paperwork for the Army reserves, watching cheesy movies and decorating the dining room. He rubs a hand over the back of his head, glances at the clock again, wonders if perhaps he should just call her, to make sure the train hasn't broken down, or she hasn't missed it, or gotten on the wrong one, or something.

"Charles, please sit down, Dear. You're wearing a hole in the floor," his mother, Catherine, smiles at him as she glances up from her book, peers over the rims of her glasses. He sighs, cheeks warming a little, before he gives in, collapses onto the sofa next to his Father who's watching The Antique's Road Show – borefest! He makes an attempt to concentrate on the mantle clock on the screen, the estimation highlighted at £80, but it's not enough of a distraction because his body is humming, almost as if he can sense her closing in.

His vibrating phone grabs at his attention, and his heart skips a thud as he looks at the screen, sees Molly's face smiling at him, and then he's thumbing the glass to answer it.

"Dawes," he tries to sound nonchalant, relaxed, even if he did answer after the first ring. She laughs, quietly, as if she's onto him but isn't going to pull him up on it.

"We're just about to get into the station."

"Okay, I'll be there," he promises, already heading for the front door, grabbing his keys and wallet – because he's promised to take the three of them for a meal – from the sideboard as he goes. She laughs again, is saying goodbye, and he waits for her to end the call so he doesn't have to.

He shifts in the hard, wooden chair as he watches Molly disappear out of sight, barging through the rest room door with her Mother, laughing and gossiping about something he can't quite hear enough to make out what they're saying. He offers a small smile to the guy sitting opposite him – Dave, he has to remind himself – who's eyes are a cold green and fixed on him, even as he takes a large drag from the bottle of Bud in his hand, face hard and emotion void.

"So," he begins, an attempt to break the awkward silence, because whether he likes it or not, these are Molly's parents, he's Molly's father, and that means they're important to her. Which in turn means they're important to him. Dave cuts off anything that Charles was about to say, give him the impression that he's been waiting for the opportunity, a chance to assert his dominance.

"You were Molly's boss." It's not said as a question, but a statement of fact – a fact he disapproves of, even if he doesn't have the balls to say it out right, sounds as if he's expecting Charles to deny it, to accuse him of being wrong. He doesn't though, just offers one nod in return as he wipes clammy hands against his jeans.

"I was," he simply confirms, forces himself not to cringe as Dave's eye twitches, as he slams the glass bottle down with more force than necessary before relaxing back against the same uncomfortable chair as Charles', arms folding across his chest.

"Ain't that against some sort of Army whatsit?"

"Regulations," Charles offers, immediately wishes he hadn't, because he's implying this guy is stupid, which he really shouldn't do if he's planning on marrying his daughter—one day. "It was."

"Not one for following the rules then, huh? Only girl in the team, was she?" Dave almost sneers, and Charles can hear what he's not saying, the insinuation loud as he waits for a reply, tongue dancing across his dry, chapped lips.

"Platoon," Charles corrects again, this time on purpose, then proceeds to nod. "She was our only female soldier, but I don't see how that -"

"So you wanted to get your leg over." The judgement has been made, and Charles feels heat spreading up his neck- not embarrassment, but anger.

"I didn't touch your daughter whilst we were serving together," he says, fights to keep his voice steady, calm. "I was the Captain of her platoon, and I took my role very seriously. I can assure you, we were nothing but professional -"

"Then what do you want with her?" Dave screws his nose up, uninterested in Charles' declaration, eyes revealing the disbelief he doesn't try to conceal. Charles is confused at the question, isn't sure what Dave wants him to say, what the correct answer is, because he's getting the impression that it's not _what_ he was to Molly that he's got a problem with, but _who_ he is to her.

"Well," he starts, hand reaching up to rub at his ear, isn't quite sure how this has turned into such a disaster – and this is coming from someone that's actually been in _disastrous_ war zones – multiple times. He takes the opportunity to down the last of his pint, the distraction welcome as he attempts to find the right words in his head, if there's such a thing. "I want to love her." Simple, honest.

"Yeah, course you do," Dave scoffs. "'Cause that's all anyone wants with a bird like my Mols, ay?" He leans forward, grabs for his beer bottle again, and waves it in Charles' direction. "You seriously expect me to believe that someone like _you_ would be interested in someone like _her_?"

Charles gets it, the problem suddenly rearing it's head and smacking him in the face, hard. This isn't about him, it's about her. Dave doesn't disapprove because Charles comes from money, has a nice car, lives in a nice city, went to university and is the son of two retired doctors. It's because Molly comes from a crappy council estate on the outskirts on London City Centre, used to work all day in a run down nail salon just to pay the majority of her wages to the man that had once thought nothing more of her than a 'run of the mill little slag.' And now, she has a chance to escape, to better herself, to lead the life she dreams of, whilst he gets left behind, over run by numerous kids, with a wife that actually _wants_ to work.

"Yes," Charles nods, firmly, because of this, of _her_, he is sure. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well, she ain't no Duchess of Cambridge, is she?"

"You might very well have an incredibly low opinion of your daughter, Sir, but I for one can promise you that I am more than happy with the person she is, just the way she is. The Molly I know is ballsy, challenging and kick arse. She's talented at what she does, puts her heart and soul into her job, has more passion than I have ever seen in my life, both civilian and military. She's insanely beautiful and has the biggest heart I have ever known," Charles smiles, eyes falling on the door to the ladies room, waiting for her to emerge from it, to return to him. He sighs, blissfully, before saying, "She's amazing," in a tone that's something near reverence.

Dave huffs a sigh at that, rolling his eyes, somewhat won over.

"Yeah, all right then," he mumbles, before he downs the last of his bottle, just as the door swings open and Molly emerges, still laughing with Belinda – the one parent Charles has found easy to like – her head tilted back as her laughters fills the quiet, country pub. And then she's looking at him, treating him to her toothy grin and those incredibly cute dimples, and he has to take a deep breath and remind himself of where he is and who he's with, that it would be incredibly inappropriate to grab Molly by the hand and pull her into the bathroom so he can have his wicked way with her.

"Ready to go?" she asks him as she returns to his side, pulls her jacket from the chair and slides her arms into it, the green fabric drowning her small frame. He nods, because he can't trust his voice just yet, not until he can shift the image of her bent over the sink unit out of his head. He forces himself to his feet, listens as Belinda refuses to accept a ride back to the station, insists on calling a cab so Dave can have a few more beers.

"I'll see ya later, Dad, yeah?" Molly says, doesn't seem phased by the grunt and jerk of his head as a reply, his attention focused on the football match being shown on the flat screen. "I'll see ya later, Mum," she turns to Belinda, who's grabbing hold of her shoulders and tugging her into an embrace, squeezing hard as eyes mist.

"I love you, Mol. I really do," she says, just loud enough for Charles to hear, and then Molly's pulling away, dropping a quick kiss on Belinda's cheek as she does.

"You too, Mum. I'll text you later, yeah?"

Charles quickly extends his hand to Dave, who ignores it for three long seconds before he makes an effort, gives one quick shake and a grunt that sounds something like "See ya," and then he's turning to Belinda, takes her hand in his and presses his lips softly to her middle knuckle.

"It's lovely to have met you, Mrs Dawes." Pretends her doesn't see the way her eyes widen, and looks at Molly approvingly.

"Come on, you. Before you do something stupid like run off with my Mother," Molly grins, grabbing hold of his arm and sliding her other hand into his, entwining their fingers and giving a gentle squeeze, just to let him know she's missed him. "Have a nice time in Cardiff," she says to her parents, before she leads Charles past the bar, and through the entrance doors, into the frigidly cold night air.

"That wasn't too bad, was it," she asks as they hurry, looks up at him for reassurance, eyes wide and she suddenly looks her age.

"No, they're lovely people," he says, lifting their interlocked hands and dropping a kiss on each of her cold fingers as he pulls his car keys out of his pocket with the other hand.

"Be honest, was my Dad an utter wanker when I was in the bogs with Mum?" An eyebrow arches, as if she can read his mind, as if she expected the laughing and joking whilst they ate to be an act, that he was just waiting for Molly to be out of sight before he could reveal his true colours.

"No," he opts to lie as they reach the BMW, both skirting around the bonnet, hands trying and failing to stay connected as their bodies part. They both slide into the vehicle, Molly rubbing her palms together to try and warm her hands, Charles ramming the key into the ignition so he can start the engine and get the heaters working.

"Really?" she probes, pulling her seatbelt around her, then cupping her hands and blowing into them.

"Really," Charles nods as he does his seatbelt too, turns to face her, traces every inch of her face as if it's the first time he's really seeing her. "I missed you."

She smiles at that, big and goofy, eyes twinkling, and it takes everything in him not to grab hold of her and kiss that silly look from her face. He puts the car into gear and pulls out of the car park, desperate to get her home.

"Move in with me."

His voice, husky and edgy with post-sex roughness, fills the quiet room, his chest rumbling beneath her head. Molly looks up at him, the moonlight streaming through the window because they hadn't bothered – or were just too busy – to close the curtains, untangles her legs from his so she can roll over, pretend he isn't trying to have this conversation at two in the morning.

"Go to sleep," she says, because she's tired and she's missed him, and she wants to make sure that he means it, that's it's not just something he's saying because she went away for a couple of days, is due to leave again soon. But he's there, pressing his lips against her shoulder, pulling onto her back so he can see her, look into those eyes he's missed waking up to, hand brushing over her abdomen and stopping at her waist to hold her in place.

"I mean it, Dawes," he says, and even in the low lighting, she's blown away by the intensity of his gaze, the softness to his features when he looks at her that way. She sighs, hand reaching up to run through his already dishevelled hair, before she's pulling him down so she can press her lips onto his. "Move in," he repeats, an order, as he pulls away, stares down at her. She takes a deep breath, her stomach doing somersaults, and she's pretty sure she can hear her heart beating, is sure he can hear it too.

"You really want to live with me, twenty four, seven?" she asks, an eyebrow arching up.

"Yes."

"All day, and all night?" she reiterates, and he nods, his hand moving from her waist to stroke at her jawline, leans down and drops a kiss on her mouth, soft and delicate, leaves her aching for more. "With all my stuff."

"It's a big house," he smirks, but she doesn't look sure, even as he runs his hand back do her body, over breast and ribs, stops at her hip to trace patterns, making her shiver.

"It's a big step -" she begins to argue, but he cuts her off, mouth moving to her neck, lips brushing against skin as he speaks.

"I'm ready."

"But what if you're not," she says, and he lifts his head to look at her. Molly Dawes, scared. He'd never have believed it if he wasn't lying here, next to her, looking down into wide, petrified eyes. "I mean, you were married to her for, how long?"

"Ten years," he answers straight away.

"That's a very long time," Molly points out, her hand running over his back, memorizing each muscle, the dips and curves.

"She never made me feel the way you do," he breathes, the moment of honesty so bare, she feels like the air's been taking from her lungs.

"I just," Molly frowns, tries to find the words, but isn't sure there are any. "Are you _really_ sure?"

He answers her by crashing his mouth onto hers, kisses her so fiercely, she's worried she's going to pass out. When he finally pulls away, they're both panting, eyes dark with arousal, hearts beating so fast, Molly's sure she can hear them. "O-okay then," she whispers, her stomach squeezing tight.

"Really?" His eyes widen, a grin breaks across his face, and she reaches up to smooth a thumb over his swollen lips.

"Really," she nods. "On the one condition that we start looking for our own place."

"We'll go to the estate agents first thing tomorrow," Charles whispers, before his mouth is back on hers, softer this time, a celebration, his hands running down her thighs, causing her to shiver.

"Not tomorrow," she breathes in between kiss. "The courier should be delivering my stuff."

Charles pulls back, looks confused, and Molly laughs, light and carefree.

She had every intention of moving in, anyway.


	5. Don't Forget Me

**AN: Here's a short piece. It was triple the length, but my computer crashed and I lost it all. I really couldn't be bothered to retype the lost pages, so this is what I could salvage. **

**Please review (even if it isn't the best work! Sorry!)**

**GB**

**xox**

* * *

><p><span><strong>Don't Forget Me<strong>

He descends the wooden staircase slowly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes before casting them around the large, open room, spots the two large bags stacked near the front door, moves his gaze over the half emptied cardboard boxes, the cluttered coffee table, spots Molly sitting on their new sofa, curled in on her self, staring into the open fire – the warm glow the only light source, shadows dancing in rhythm to a silent song.

He hops down the last two steps and crosses over the expanse of mahogany flooring he'd had installed before they moved in, to join her.

"Can't sleep?" he asks as she looks up at him, waits for him to get comfortable against the mound of scatter cushions before she shifts, moves her body so she can lean into him, head resting on his shoulder, legs tucked under her.

"Not tonight," she answers, shaking her head as she pulls his arm around her so she can trace the lines of his palm. "Sorry if I woke you."

"You didn't," he says, his voice quiet in the large, open room. He drops a kiss on the top of her head, encouraging her to snuggle in impossibly closer, is almost moulding their bodies into one. "I could never sleep the night before."

"Really?" She looks up at him, eyes glassy and red rimmed – from exhaustion or from crying, he isn't sure – but it makes her look younger, naïve. He tightens his grip protectively.

"It's normal; your body is running high on nerves and adrenaline right now."

"I just – I feel restless. Like every time I close my eyes, my body jerks me awake," she says, hushed, trembles slightly as he moves his hand to the small of her back, lifts the fabric so he can brushes lazy strokes against silky, soft skin. "Why are you up? You okay?"

"Me?" Charles asks, falters slightly, is taken aback because even now, months into their relationship, he still can't understand, or believe, how Molly can put everyone else before herself, even when she's been dumped on so many times before, by people she thought she could trust. "I...I'm..."

She looks up at his stammering, reaches up to smooth the creases on his forehead as he searches for the right words, tries to decipher his thoughts and feelings swirling around in his head, in his chest.

"Tell me," she insists.

"I don't know," he shrugs honestly. "It's a new experience for me; being left behind. I don't know how to react, how to feel."

"Yeah, it must suck," Molly agrees. "I'm sorry," because she can't imagine the frustration someone like Charles – who used to volunteer himself to serve in Afghanistan, even after losing people he'd come to care for – must be feeling in his situation.

"What are you apologising for? You're the one about to leave," he points out, and then Molly's moving again, trying to get a better look at him, ends up straddling his lap so she can look into his eyes, try to read what he's thinking.

"I know that, nobhead," she rolls her own eyes. "But I want to make this easier for you." And there it is again, Molly putting his happiness above hers, being completely selfless, and it's driving him crazy.

"You're irrefutably unbelievable," he whispers, leans in to press his mouth onto her, softly, sweetly. She moans in protest when he pulls back, eyes tracing her soft features, strokes her lose hair from her face.

"You're just after sympathy sex," Molly laughs, airily, runs her hand through his already messy, blonde hair.

"Sympathy sex?" His brow slipping into a frown, even as his mouth twitches at the corners.

"Yep. You're hoping I feel sorry for you and fuck your brains out, just in case mine get blown out whilst I'm away," she explains, arching her body into his, brushes her lips against his, teasing. "All the military wives get it, y'know."

"Military wives, huh?"

"Mhm," Molly nods, eyes twinkling as she plays with the soft hairs at the nap of his neck. "You're one of them now." She loves the way his chest rumbles below her as he laughs, deep and sexy.

"Oh, I am?"

"Yup. You get to stay at home and look after the kids, whilst I go and serve our country, and put the bread on our table," she laughs, rubs a hand over his cheek, over the gritty bristles, likes the way it feels on her skin, before dropping another kiss on the corner of his mouth. "Them's the rules."

"Well, there are only two things wrong with that," Charles says, playing along, his hands running up and down her exposed thighs, leaving a hot trail of goosebumps.

"Yeah? What's that?" She raises an eyebrow, a challenge.

"Well, number one, we don't have any kids," he points out, and Molly seems to contemplate that, before asking,

"Next?"

"And number two, there's only one thing I want spread out on that dining table," he leans forward, voice dropping an octave, deep and husky, sends shivers up Molly's spine as breath tickles her ear. "And it isn't bread."

Molly laughs lightly as he buries his head in the curve of her neck, lips brushing against the exposed skin by the neckline of his favourite t-shirt, hands drifting to the waistband of her pyjama shorts, teasing.

"Well, you're in luck, 'cause I have two solutions for you," she mutters, her body arching into him and hands splaying across his back to keep him close. "Firstly, we can get a kitten to keep you busy," she breathes, gasps as hands trail up her body, tearing the shirt over her head.

"Secondly?" he murmurs against skin, teeth grazing collarbone.

"We have two hours before we have to leave," she says, breathlessly, and he's looking up at her, eyes brightening as lust consumes him. And then his lips are meeting hers, kissing her fiercely, as he stands up and carries her to the dinner table, letting her strip him of his clothes as they go.

As far as Charles is concerned, being an Army Wife has it's perks.

* * *

><p>"Make sure you always have your backup piece on you. Always," Charles says as he turns the ignition off, twists to face Molly as she she attempts to straighten her jacket, hands shaking as she fights to keep control. He reaches over, rough hands on soft ones.<p>

"I will," Molly assures, nodding as she absent mindedly entwines her fingers with his, the gap between each digit a perfect match.

"And make sure you eat properly; none of this pizza rubbish. You'll need plenty of energy and junk food will weigh you down too much."

"Got it," she nods again, his thumb brushing at the sensitive spot on the underside of her wrist and she's wondering how the Hell she's supposed to just let him go.

"And don't let any of the guys hassle you. You're just as capable-"

"I've done this before, you know," she interrupts him with the reminder, and a ghost of a smile passes over his lips as his eyes fall to their interlocked hands.

"I know," he nods, lifts her hand to brush his lips over her fingers. "But I wont be there this time." His eyes are tortured when they move back to connect with hers, and it takes every cell in her body to fight the urge to kiss him until the pain melts away.

"I'll be fine." A promise she knows she shouldn't make, but intends to keep.

"Yeah, I know." Because he doesn't doubt her at all, not even in their darkest hour. "And try not to fall for any of those Captain-y types, either. They're all ass holes." Molly laughs at that, loud and free, all doom and gloom temporarily forgotten, and then her face is moulding into her very best serious face.

"I'll try my hardest, but I can't make any promises, Boss," she teases, eyebrow arching, and then he's smiling at her, white teeth and crinkled eyes. Molly takes a deep breath, attempts to coach herself into letting go.

"Remember, always keep your gun -"

"Charlie," she cuts him off, turns a little more in her seat so she can reach her other arm across the middle console, presses palm against cheek, thumb rubbing over rough stubble. "I know." Because she does; she knows everything he isn't saying, with everything he is. She wont say it either; _I'll miss you, too._

"Okay," he breathes, and she drops her hand, glances over her shoulder at the armed gates, trying to avoid the impending goodbyes, the last spoken words that she'll be playing over and over in her head for the next three months, neither of them ready, even if they have had time to prepare.

"I should go," she sighs, gives his hand one firm squeeze before slipping from his grasp, and he's nodding, heaving in a deep lungful of air.

"Yep," he nods, grabbing for the door handle so he can get out of the enclosed space, the place he's going to remember her being last, until she's back there again. She copies, gets out of the car and rolls out each shoulder, moves her neck side to side, because it had been a long journey – mostly in silence – before she's taking the beret from her pocket and sliding it onto her head, no longer needing a mirror to adjust it. She moves to the rear of the car, where Charles has already opened the boot, her luggage waiting for her; she grabs the first duffel and hoists it onto her shoulder, before taking the other and dropping it at her feet. They stare at each other, neither knowing what to say, waiting for the other to get the balls to say it first.

"It's just three months; a short tour," Molly is the first to speak, to break the silence, isn't sure if she's trying to comfort him or herself.

"Right," he agrees, nodding.

"Oh, your Mum's birthday present is in the top drawer of your desk in the study," she adds, before she forgets. "It's a necklace."

"Great, thanks. She'll love it," Charles smiles, because he would have forgotten.

"And there's an envelope with a card in, next to the microwave, for Mum and Dad's wedding anniversary next week. I signed it from both of us. You'll need to post it on Friday, so it arrives by Wednesday."

"Right. Card, microwave, Friday; got it."

"Oh, and I left a card with some paint swatches on the coffee table, for the living room, but I'll let you decide which one to go with, because I like them all."

"Molly," Charles smiles. "You're stalling."

"I know," she sighs, before taking a deep breath. "So...don't forget me?" It's his turn to laugh at her, shaking his head, because there's no way in Hell he could ever forget Molly Dawes. He pulls her into him, bag and all, his large hands splayed across her back and cupping the back of her head.

"Be safe, okay? No stupid stunts," he says into her hair, inhales to capture the scent of her favourite shampoo. She nods into his shoulder, blinks several times as she swallows against the tears gathering thick and hot in the back of her throat. "I love you, Dawes." He gives her one quick squeeze before he's releasing her, and she's pulling back, aching to be in his arms again.

"I love you, too," she forces a smile onto her mouth, before reaching up on tip toes to press her lips against his, kisses him like it's last chance she'll ever get, deep and passionate, slow and intimate.

"Hurry home," he murmurs against her lips, and then she's stepping back, picking up her kit and trudging over to the gates, refusing too look back as a single tear rolls down her cheek.


	6. I Thought It Would Be Easy

**AN: Here's another one shot. Hope you like it. It could be read as a second half to 'Don't forget me'.**

**All rights to respective owners. **

**Please read and review – they keep me going!**

**Lacey. **

**xox**

* * *

><p><span><strong>I thought it would be easy<strong>

**(But it ain't for me)**

**I**t's a little after 9:00am when Charles steps through the front door of their new home, allows it to close softly behind him. He goes straight for the curved, wooden staircase, takes the steps two at a time, and heads into the room at the far end of the hallway; his new study. He immediately busies himself with unpacking the few boxes stacked in the far corner; slides books onto newly fixed shelves, hangs his favourite artwork on the walls, connects his computer up on the opulent desk Molly had insisted she buy for him. When he's satisfied with the room – has rearranged the books to go alphabetically, and then rearranged again to go alphabetically _and_ by genre – he moves into the spare bedroom. He builds the bed frame, puts together the chest of drawers and wardrobe, dresses the bed using the scatter cushions Molly had picked out to match the décor. When that's done, and he's placed the vase of fake flowers on top of the drawers, fixes the position of the touch lamp on the night stand and smoothes out the runner on the foot of the bed, he moves onto the next room; the master suite. He changes the bedsheets, unpacks the two remaining suitcases in the corner of the room, then moves into the on-suite bathroom, proceeds to bleach clean every last inch of it whilst trying to avoid picking up her bottle of shampoo propped in the bottom of the shower stall and inhaling its glorious scent.

He loses tracks of time as he moves throughout the house, piecing together the rooms – unpacking and tidying, organising and arranging – and it's not until his phone vibrates in his pocket that he stops what he's doing – bleaching the granite worktops in the kitchen – and heads into the living room as he thumbs the screen to answer the call.

"Mum wanted me to call," Emily says as soon as he presses the device to his ear. "Are you okay?"

"Hey, Em," he sighs, collapses down onto the sofa, sinks into the many cushions they'd bought because Molly just couldn't decide which she preferred. "I'm fine, tell Mum sorry. I meant to call, but I've just been busy."

"Will do," she says over the line, and he rubs a hand over his tired face. "Have you eaten?" It's not until she asks the question that he looks up at the clock on the mantle, can't believe it already says it's almost 8pm.

"Not yet," he admits, and his stomach growls loudly, as if protesting. "I'll order a pizza," he says automatically, then sighs, because he doesn't even like pizza, only ever eats it when Molly's home. "Or an indian."

"Okay," Emily seems to accept that, albeit hesitantly, then adds, "Come by mine tomorrow. We'll do lunch."

"Sure," he accepts, because anything is better than sitting in an empty house, alone. "I'll drop by."

"Great. Well, I'd better go. Henry is here," she says, pronounces her very camp, very gay best friend's name as Henri, as if he's French, or upper class, or something he's really not. "If you need anything," she trails off, leaves the offer somewhere mid-line.

"Yeah, thanks, Em," he says, and means it. "I'll see you tomorrow." And then she's ending the call with a faint _click._

He drops his phone onto the sofa cushion next to him, listens to the soft tick-tocking of the clock, half expects to hear floorboards creek as Molly dances across the bedroom in her underwear, or music to start blaring as she brushes her teeth and shaves her legs at the same time, or the television whispering as she focuses all of her attention on painting her toe nails. But there's nothing but too much quiet, uncomfortable silence filling the two storey, three bedroomed detached house, and then it hits him, like a blow to the gut; he's barely made it through the first day, and he's already missing her.

He ends up dialling for a pizza, tips the delivery guy generously, eats half of it and then shoves the rest in the bin, before taking himself off to bed.

* * *

><p><strong>H<strong>e jolts himself awake early the following morning, after accidentally rolling onto her empty side of the bed, finds the sheets crisp and cold. It's barely six, but he forces himself to get up to stop him dwelling on the untouched pillows, her scent barely lingering, brushes his teeth and gets himself dressed on autopilot, heads down the stairs and out the front door, doesn't cast a glance around the empty rooms.

He runs until his muscles ache and sweat drenches his top, rolls from his hairline and down his back, until the dark morning sky turns a magnificent mix of orange and pink, makes it back home just as the typical, cold winter blue pushes back the warm tones of the sunrise.

He resists the urge to call her as he turns his phone on to check for any notifications and her face lights up the screen. He smiles sadly, misses that goofy grin and those incredibly cute dimples, then tosses his phone onto their bed as he steps into the bedroom, heads straight for the shower. He takes his time, allows the hot water to run over his body, soothing tense muscles and only gets out when the water begins to turn cold.

When he checks his emails, he finds she had emailed him a picture of the African sunset – Giraffe's and Boabab trees included – had inserted a quick line to say she'd landed safely, that she'll call when she gets a chance, that she hopes he's having a good day. He smiles, staring at the beautiful gold and red hues, the silhouettes of graceful creatures he's only ever dreamed of seeing, and still can't help but wish she'd sent a picture of her.

* * *

><p><strong>H<strong>e finds himself on Emily's doorstep before twelve, knuckles rapping softly against the intricate glass panelling of her front door, isn't surprised to find she's answering the door almost immediately, because she always does.

"Charles," she greets, smiling fondly, gesturing for him to step over the threshold, into the house he's always argued is too big for a single occupant.

"Hey Em," he says, hands shoved deep into his jeans pockets as he proceeds to enter the house, feels slightly under dressed in his plaid shirt and loose fitting jeans when she's wearing a black and white bodycon dress, her naturally red hair pulled back into a tight bun.

"Coffee?" She offers as the begins to walk up the long hall, her heels click-clacking against the tiled flooring, glances over her shoulder just to make sure he's following after her.

"Sure," he replies, shrugging his shoulder, stepping into the large, ultra modern, barely used kitchen he's always been secretly jealous of.

"Arpeggio or Rosabaya?" she asks as she makes her way over to the well used Nespresso machine – the only thing she probably knows how to work in the kitchen, Charles suspects – a well manicured hand reaching for the box of coffee pods.

"Surprise me," he says, sitting himself at the breakfast bar, hands folded upon the counter, watches as she fingers an Arpeggio capsule. "No court today, then?"

"No," she shakes her head, smiles. "Even judges get their days off," she jests, switches the coffee machine on. "Sushi okay?"

"Yeah," he nods, watches as she pulls two cartons from the silver refrigerator, proceeds to pull two square, marble 'plates' from one of the cupboards to dish up the pre-packed food.

"So, are you okay? Mum said whats-her-name left for America yesterday."

"Her name is Molly, Emily. You know that," Charles says, struggles to keep the growl from his throat, even if one eyebrow arches on it's own accord. "And she's in _Africa_."

"Oh," Emily screws her nose up as she places the food in front of Charles, hands him two chopsticks. "I wasn't really listening. You know what Mother is like when she's gets you on the phone; yabbers away for hours on end. I've learned to tune out." Charles nods, because he does know, pops a seaweed wrap into his mouth. "Oh, actually before I forget, you know Great Aunt Sal's step niece is getting married next year, don't you? They've asked me to help with the preparation and planning, so you'll be getting an invite through the post within the next week. Please be a star and RSVP as soon as, I'll need to know numbers."

"I've never even met her," Charles says, shaking his head.

"I know, but the whole family _is_ going to be there," Emily says, slides his coffee to him before taking the seat opposite.

"Well, when is it?"

"Next July, mid month. Hopefully the weather will be glorious, because I'm leaning towards a ceremony on the Dorset coastline somewhere."

"That's ages away," he chuckles, rolling his eyes. "I'll have to see what we're doing."

"Because your social calender is so packed these days?" Emily scoffs sarcastically. "Actually, don't worry about the RSVP, I'll just put you down as attending anyway."

"Em -"

"I know, I know," she waves her hand at him, a flash of red nail paint. "I'll put you down with a plus one; it's only fair if Becca has one."

"Wait, Rebecca is going?"

"Yeah, of course. Gran invited her."

"But she isn't family. She hasn't even met this Great half cousin, or whatever the hell the relation is."

"She is to us," Emily snaps. "You made sure of that." Charles takes a deep breath, watches as his sister pushes her untouched food away and reaches for the thick notepad and pen on the counter behind her. "I didn't want to like her, didn't want to be her friend, but you insisted that I got to know her, that I bonded with her and accepted her, so I did and now she's like a sister to me. Just because _you_ divorced her, doesn't mean the rest of us have to."

"Em -" Charles says, because she's right. She'd hated Rebecca almost as much as she dislikes Molly, but he'd pushed for them to spend time together, because he loved her, thought she was the one. Emily clears her throat, forces a smile on her mouth, continues as if the outburst never happened.

"I'll presume you'll be bringing Molly if you're still together."

"I don't know -"

"What? She's only been gone a day and you're already having doubts?"

"No, it's not that -"

"Are you thinking of ending it with her?"

"No, Em -"

"Because I totally told Becca that she was just the rebound girl. All marriages go through rough patches. I see it all the time."

"There is no marriage," Charles grinds out, grip tightening on his chopstick. "I just don't know if Molly -"

"Don't worry about it, I'll just jot down '_plus one_'. I'm sure you'll be able to find _someone_ to go with. In fact, I think Francesca still has that thing for you, and she's shed_ so_ much weight, you'd barely recognise her."

Charles sighs as he watches Emily scribble something down on the lined paper, gives up because he can't see him winning this one.

* * *

><p><strong>H<strong>e's dozing on the sofa, the television showing an old fashioned, black and white movie, when his phone begins to vibrate on the coffee table. He reaches for it, the number is withheld, but he thumbs at the screen anyway, answering the call.

"Hello?" He breathes, voice husky and full of sleep.

"Hey, you," Molly's voice echoes through the line, quiet and relieved, and he finds himself suddenly feeling wide awake, is jolting upright and rubbing a hand over tired eyes, rough stubble.

"Molly."

"I can't talk for long; you know how it is," she says, voice hushed as if she'd whispering. He glances at the time, it's after midnight, meaning it's at least 2am over there. "I just needed to hear your voice."

"Hows Africa?" he asks, flicking the TV off by the remote, can't risk missing anything she has to say.

"Beautiful," she answers immediately, dreamily. "But it ain't no Bath." He chuckles at that, deep and throaty, makes her laugh in return, soft and airy. "So what have you been doing?"

"I finished the house," he says, eyes casting around the room. "I think I might start painting tomorrow. I like swatch five; matt slate. You have good taste, Miss Dawes."

"I know," she says. "Picked you, didn't I?"

"You're so cheesy," he laughs, shaking his head slightly, even if she can't see it. He closes his eyes, pictures her twinkling eyes and mischievous smile. "I went to see Em today. She's invited us to some wedding of a distant relative."

"When?"

"It's next July."

"That's ages away," she huffs.

"I know," he agrees.

"Wait, I'm actually invited?" She sounds dubious, and his lips twitch upwards.

"You're my plus one. She even got your name right this time."

"Well, that's an improvement, at least," She whispers. "I've got to go."

"Okay," he says, tone dips slightly. "I miss you."

"I miss you, too," she breathes down the line. He waits for her to end the call, because he can't bring himself to do it, not when she's right there, her voice in his ear. If he closes his eyes, he can practically smell her perfume, feel her shifting on the sofa next to him.

"Stay safe," he says when it's evident she isn't going to hang up just yet, either.

"I will," she promises. "I need to go and take a shower. I stink to high heaven."

"Tease," Charles grins, and she laughs.

"I'm sorry," she says innocently. "It's a shame this line ain't secure, or I'd describe in excruciatingly accurate detail how I undress -"

"Molly," he warns, his voice firm, an order, even if it does tremble slightly as arousal warms his blood. "Shut up."

"Yes, Boss," she says, amusement evident, before silence falls between them again, each of them listening to the other breathing down the line, neither needing to say anything. "I really do have to go," she eventually says, reluctantly, quietly.

"Okay, babe," he sighs, tries to hide his disappointment. "Good night."

"Good night, Captain," she returns. "I love you."

"Yeah," he breathes. "You too."

She's the first to hang up, leaving him alone. He stretches out his tired body, forces himself up from the sofa, and carries himself up the stairs, flicking the light off as he goes. He doesn't bother undressing as he falls onto their bed, lands face first into her pillow, gives in and inhales the subtle lavender scent.

Two days down, ninety four to go.


	7. Even Rainbows Need Rain

**AN: Yay, Molly's home! Here's another one shot. **

**Please read and review!**

**Lacey**

**xox**

* * *

><p><span><strong>Even Rainbows Need Rain<strong>

**H**e knows she's home the instant he steps through the front door, tired and sweating from the intense workout he's just carried out at the new gym across town. He closes the door behind him, quietly, inhales the unique hint of lavender and dust – a scent only she can pull off – whilst listening out for the sound of movement, straining his ears and glancing around the open plan living room.

"Molly?" He calls out from his spot near the entrance to their home, drops his gym bag by his feet as he waits for a reply that doesn't come. "Mol?" The sound of creaking floorboards somewhere above him and the faint hum of someone singing softly and out of tune, is the only reply that he gets, but it's enough to get his heart racing, body humming. He heads straight up the stairs, taking two steps at a time, has to force himself to slow down, remind himself to quit acting like an over enthusiastic teenage girl, and start being the well disciplined military man that he is. _Or was_.

He stops when he reaches the doorway to their bedroom, heart stuttering as he lays eyes on her for the first time in three months; her hair is wet, hanging loosely, and she's wearing nothing more than a small, white towel tucked tightly around her chest, as she dances around the bedroom to a tune only she can hear. He smiles, leans back against the door frame, folds his arms over his chest, crosses his legs at the ankle, and watches her, drinking her in. His eyes trace each and every curve, watches as her hair falls from her shoulder to reveal a glimpse of sun kissed skin. Half of him is eager for her to turn around, so he can see the face he's missed more than anything, and half of him just feels so damned lucky to have her here, with him, and would be happy just to watch her dance, with her back to him, all day long.

She turns around, spinning on the balls of her feet, her phone held tightly in her hand as it plays music through the connected earphones, and then she's opening those intense green eyes, locking them on to his, and screams._ Like a girl._

"Shit, Charlie. Don't do that!" She scorns, ripping her earphones from her ears, tries to steady her breathing as she tosses the phone onto their bed. "You could'a given me a bloody Sean Connery!"

"You were too easy to sneak up on, Dawes. As your former C.O, I'm a little disappointed," Charles smirks, eyes trailing over the small towel, and back up to her face. She attempts to look annoyed at his subtle mockery, but it just humours him more, and then she's breaking into the biggest, goofiest grin she could possibly manage, before they're covering the distance between them – her two strides to his one – and their bodies collide with an almost audible _bang!_ She stretches up on bare feet, snakes her arms around his neck as he wraps his around her waist, and they both hang on as if their lives depend on it.

He drops a kiss on the soft skin of her exposed shoulder.

"You're early."

"I caught an earlier flight with some of the lads," she says into his shoulder, hands fisting the back of his sweaty top, tries to press her body impossibly closer. "Did you miss me?"

He draws back at her question, hold around her waist loosening slightly, moves just enough so he can get a clear view of her face, can trace her every feature with his eyes, so they're breathing the same air.

"Not one bit," he lies, voice low and rough, before he's leaning in, capturing her mouth with his, lips moving frantically against hers as if he's trying to memorize her all over again, as if he's making sure she's still the same, _they're_ still the same. They eventually part, eager for air, and she's smiling at him, all teeth and dimples.

"Yeah, me neither," she laughs, softly, reaches up to brush her lips against his. "I love what you've done with the place," she says, eyes casting around the room before locking back with his. "Very homey."

"Well, I figured it's what army wives do," he jokes about the décor. "You know, I cook, I clean, I do all of the DIY. I even iron. You're a very lucky lady, Private Dawes."

"I am," she nods, fingers playing with the soft hairs at the nape of his neck. "So what do I bring into this relationship?"

He seems to think about that for a minute, brushes her wet hair from her face, and then he's smiling, eyes twinkling.

"You're good in bed, I guess." A casual, one shouldered shrug.

Her mouth falls slack for all of a second as she pulls out of his arms, and then her face moulds into something that should look like outrage, but even she's finding the humour in his remark. She playfully punches him in the chest, pushes him backwards so he falls onto the bed, but she can't take the time to look smug, because he's grabbing hold of her wrist and pulling her down on top of him. His lips find hers as his hands fall to her waist, where they fit perfectly, and she moans in glee, body moulding into his as her fingers run through his hair. He shifts their bodies in one swift movement so he can trap her under him, marvels at her beauty when she breaks into that familiar laughter, head tilted back and dimples deep. He cups one side of her face, strokes the line of her jaw with his thumb as he leans over her, gets lost in the eyes that remind him of the sea; deep and soulful, full of mysteries he longs to solve.

"I'm glad you're home," he whispers, even though they're alone in the home they've bought together, the home they share wholly.

"Yeah, me too," Molly nods, before he's dipping his head back down, claiming her as his, their lips crashing against each other in the perfectly synced rhythm only they know.

* * *

><p>"So, what do you think?"<p>

Charles looks up from his book, eyes landing on Molly as she stands awkwardly on the bottom step of the staircase, hands gripping the gold clutch purse so tight, her knuckles are white.

"Wow, you look -" he struggles to find the right words as he tosses the book in his hand onto their coffee table, leans forward to get a better look, eyes trailing over her body excruciatingly slow. She's wearing the dress she'd brought back from Africa; green with wooden beading around the neckline, hangs off the shoulders, stops just sky of her knees. She's pulled her hair back into a fancy chignon, but a few loose, curled tendrils fall down, framing her face, and she's even put make up on; smoky eyes, bronzed cheeks and a nude mouth.

"It's too much, ain't it?" she says, slipping her feet from the golden wedged shoes, shrinks by at least five inches.

"No!" Charles says quickly, pushing up off the couch and covering the gap between them in four, long strides. "No," he says again, softly, firmly, whilst taking one of her hands in his, lifts it to his mouth to brush lips against knuckles. "You look -" he tries to find some words, any words, can only find 'amazing'. She blushes at that, pink cheeks under a layer of foundation.

"Really?" She asks, looking up at him through thick lashes, her insecurities flashing through her eyes, even if she does make out to be over confident.

"Really," he confirms, rubs a thumb over her cheek before pressing his mouth to hers, kissing her gently.

"Are you sure? Because Emily always looks so...perfect...and I -"

"You're beautiful," he says, chuckles slightly, checks the time because his sister hates being made to wait, even when he's the one paying for dinner. "We're running late."

"She already hates me," Molly mumbles, bending to put her wedges back on. "Making you five minutes late ain't gonna change much."

"She doesn't hate you," Charles sighs, unhooking his dinner jacket from the banister post.

"You're sure she doesn't mind me tagging along?"

"No, she was fine with it."

"Really?"

"Yes, now are you ready?" She answers with a nod, grabs her black faux fur jacket from the antique coat stand his Mother had bought for them as a house warming gift. He follows her out of the front door, turns to lock up their home, and then rushes down the path so he can at least get the car door for her.

* * *

><p><strong>H<strong>e slams the front door behind them, the glass panes rattling in the solid oak frame, and it takes everything Molly has not to cringe at the painfully loud _Bang!_

"Jeez," she breathes, her voice trembling only slightly. "What did that door ever do to you?" She tries to joke, lighten the mood, but Charles just storms past her, heads straight for the stairs, so Molly follows after him, sticks to three paces behind him mainly because he's walking so fast and she's still in her heels, breaking their 'no shoes upstairs' rule. She halts when she reaches the doorway to their bedroom, watches as he moves to his side of the bed, flicks on the bedside lamp to break up the darkness, before stripping off his dinner jacket and throwing it over the back of the chair in the far corner of the room. "Charlie," she says, his blank face making her uncomfortable, as he slides his watch from his wrist, places it on the night stand along with his phone and keys. "Seriously?" she asks when he continues to undress in silence, his eyes avoiding hers, his fingers making swift work of his shirt buttons, then he's sliding the crisp, white fabric from his torso. "You ain't gonna say nothing?" She tries again, as he heads into the on-suite bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth. She waits for him, stubbornly standing by the door, takes her shoes off and kicks them out of the way, reaches up to taker her earrings out of her sore ears – because it's been a while since she's worn any jewellery. When he does finally emerge from the bathroom, he's wearing nothing but his boxers, having thrown his trousers into the laundry hamper next to the bath. Molly swallows, tells herself now isn't the time to be distracted by _that_ body. "Really? The silent treatment?" she continues, watches as he turns off the lamp, pulls the duvet back and collapses onto the mattress. "You do know I actually live with you, right? You are gonna have to speak to me eventually." She waits for two breaths, before she's moving into the room, slipping out of her dress, throws it across the room to land with his discarded shirt and jacket, drops her earrings into the dresser top, pulls one of his clean shirts from the top draw and shoves it on over her head. She turns to look back at him, and he's still refusing to look at her as he stares up at the ceiling. "Right, fine, be a fucking wanker, then," she huffs, before heading for the door, pulling the pin from her hair and letting her curls fall loosely around her shoulders. "I'll be in the guest room."

"Get into bed, Molly," he orders, his voice husky and clipped, angry, as he rips her side of the duvet back, finally slides his dark, stormy eyes to her. She contemplates her options for just a second – stay or go – and then she's crossing over the soft carpet and sliding under their duvet.

"Charlie -" she begins, but he's snapping his eyelids closed, rolling onto his side so his back is facing her. "Fine, asshole!" she huffs, gets the message loud and clear, turns away from him too.

She lays there, staring into the darkness, for an immeasurable amount of time, longs for him to give in, to just roll over and snake his arm around her waist.

He doesn't, and she eventually falls into a fitful sleep.

* * *

><p><strong>W<strong>hen she wakes the following morning, his side of the bed is empty and the sun is already high in the mid morning sky, it's rays filtering through the Venetian blinds. She makes herself sit up, rubs the sleep from her eyes as she listens for any signs of movement, but doesn't find any in the silent house. She stretches out her body, forces herself out of the bed, can't even begin to describe how much she's missed the memory foam mattress and cotton bed set. She doesn't bother dressing herself, more than comfortable in his shirt and her underwear, steps out into the hallway and listens again. There's still nothing but silence, so she stretches her back again and then heads down the winding stairs and straight into the kitchen.

The kitchen is clean, with no signs of being used, but there's a note taped on the otherwise naked refrigerator, his lopsided, messy scrawl barely legible;_ Breakfast on top shelf_. She pulls open the heavy door, is pleasantly surprised to find a plate full of stacked waffles, with a bowl of chopped fruit and a glass of orange juice next to it. Guess he doesn't totally hate her, then. She reheats the plate of food, sprinkles the chopped strawberries, raspberries and blueberries over the top, takes the glass of juice and heads for the large living area.

He's sitting at their glass dining table, his laptop hidden beneath scattered papers, is chewing the lid of a biro as he scribbles on a notepad. He refuses to acknowledge her, even as she takes a seat at the table – albeit the far end, but still – and slowly picks apart the food he'd obviously made in their new waffle maker. It tastes good, she admits, but her appetite depletes as the silence around them thickens the air, the tension almost physical, because he's still too angry to speak to her, to even look at her, and she hates it. She takes a deep breath, worries her bottom lip, because she knows she has to be the bigger person here, has to be the one to take the first step towards their first ever fight. She swallows, pushes the food away from her, china scraping against glass, before getting up and moving over to one of the chairs next to him. He still doesn't look up at her, pen scratching against paper stubbornly.

"Cheers for breakfast," she starts, gingerly, fingers playing with the hem of the top she's wearing.

"You're welcome," he says, eyes flicking to her face so briefly, she's not sure if she's imagined it or not.

"So you worked out the waffle maker, then? I gave up after the first page of the instruc-"

"Molly, I'm trying to work," he says, tone clipped, doesn't even look up at her as he speaks, his grip on the biro tightening.

"Oh, is that the book you wanted to write? I didn't know you'd -"

"I'm busy, Molly," he snaps, this time his steely gaze landing on her, makes her inwardly cringe. She nods, once, sinks back into the chair and watches as he flips through more pages of typed words, wonders if it's perhaps his first copy, if he'd let her have a sneak peek. She watches him for a few more minutes, waits for him to crack, to give in, to just finally shout at her, so she can take it and say sorry, so they can forget it ever happened and try to find their way back to normal. But it doesn't happen, so she shifts in the chair, rests her clasped hands on the table top and tries again, this time, sounds more direct, confident.

"Can we talk?" But, instead of answering her, he makes a show of flipping over another page, eyes trained solely on the words before him, pen poised, ready to continue writing. She sighs. "Look, I know I made a right tit of myself last night, but I didn't exactly plan it," she confesses, waits another few, long, silent seconds; he's more stubborn than she has ever given him credit for. "What, so this is it now, is it? We're just gonna live in complete silence until I leave for my next tour?" She says, one eyebrow raised, but he doesn't even flinch. "You do know that I have a million brothers and sisters, right? That I could easily win this stupid game that you're trying to play?" She watches as his jaw clenches, as he takes a steady, forced breath, and then he's scratching the pen against the pad again, and she wants to scream. "I should have just stayed in fucking Africa. At least I knew where I stood out there." She snaps, and _that_ gets his attention.

"How are _you_ the one that's angry with _me_ right now?" He grinds out through clenched teeth, and whilst she hates his rough tone, the way his dubious eyes fall on hers, she'd take it over the bitter silence.

"Because," she says back, hand raking through wild locks. "You're acting all broody, and quiet, and you're pushing me out."

"How do you expect me to react?" His voice raises, brings goosebumps out across Molly's skin as it bounces around the expanse of the large room.

"Like this," she says, tries to keep her voice level, which takes more restraint than she thought it would. "You're supposed to yell and shout, tell me off, so we can get over it."

"Get over it?" He repeats, eyebrows shooting up, pushes away from the table and stands up, begins to pace the floor, his hands rubbing over his face, up threw his sun kissed hair. "You attacked my sister!" he fumes, shaking his head.

"Okay, it wasn't that bad," Molly defends quickly, raising a finger to make a point. "I didn't physically touch a single hair on her perfect little head."

"You didn't need to," he growls, eyes flashing. "I think calling her an 'emotionally stunted, up tight, snobbish trollop', in the middle of a _five star _restaurant, at the top of your fucking voice, just about did the trick!"

"Oh, that was tame, trust me," Molly scoffs, wraps her arms around her body, defensively. "She's lucky I didn't take that poxy desert fork and stab her evil eyes out with it."

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Charles yells, hands flying out, before bringing them to rest at his hips.

"_Me_? She's the one acting all judgy -"

"She's a fucking Judge! It's her fucking job!"

"And I'm a fucking soldier, but I ain't going round shooting everyone!" Molly yells back, flying to her feet. "Why are you defending her? Are you really that fucking blind to it all?"

"Okay, Molly, I don't know what your problem with Emily is -" Charles says, voice low, controlled, hand trembling as he points at her.

"My problem with her? She _is_ the fucking problem. She hates me. She always has!" Molly says, exasperated.

"I keep telling you, she doesn't hate you -"

"I try so fucking hard; I wear dresses, I do my hair, I wear make-up, I mind my fucking language, I eat in restaurants I wouldn't normally be seen dead in. But it's not enough. It'll _never_ be enough, because I'm not _Rebecca_."

"This has nothing to do with her -" Charles says, flinching slightly at Molly's words.

"Yes! It does! Emily spent the whole damned evening comparing me to your wife!" Molly exclaims, can't swallow against the lump that's forming in her throat as tears gather in her eyes, misting her vision. She tries to take a deep breath, to blink against the salt water, because this is what she wanted, this was the whole point of provoking him into a fight, so they can get it out, get over it.

"_Ex_-wife," Charles corrects quickly, but Molly's shaking her head, wiping a hand over her face.

"It doesn't matter," she concludes, voice shaking only slightly. "Because I will never be good enough. For her, for you. We both know it."

"Molly -" Charles sighs, rubs his hand over his face again, looks resigned as he stands there, looking at Molly's furious, tear streaked face.

"Don't bother," she says, fights back the sob building in her chest. "You're not angry because I showed _her _up last night. You're angry because I showed_ you _that she's been right about me this whole time. You were _married_ Charlie. You have _a son_. I can't compete with that, and I'm done trying." She stands there, forcing air into her lungs, waits for him to step forward, to wrap his arms around her, to tell her she's all he needs and that he'll never let his sister come between them again.

But he doesn't.

He stands there, hands on his hips, feet planted to the floor, a storm of sorrow and acceptance brewing in his eyes. She waits for six, long _Mississippi_ seconds, and then she huffing a sound of resignation, turning on her heel and heading back for the bedroom, where she can cry in private.

* * *

><p>She loses track of time as she lays, curled up, on their bed. Her eyes sting from the endless stream of tears, her pillow damp below her face because she'd given up trying to wipe them away at ten minutes ago. She doesn't move when she hears his footsteps on the stairs, doesn't look up when he stands in the doorway, looking at her, because she's too damn scared of what she might find written on his face. She takes in a deep breath to try and steady her breathing, her heart rate, as he slowly walks around the bed. She feels the mattress shift behind her.<p>

"Molly -"

"Don't," she says, voice weak, as she shrugs away from the hand he places on her shoulder.

"Please, don't cry." Soft and gentle, a plea.

"I'm not," she says defiantly, even as a fresh wave of tears fall from her eyes, run across her cheeks and down the bridge of her nose. She takes another breath as his hand finds its way back on her arm.

"I'm sorry. Please, stop crying," he says again, tugs her gently so she rolls onto her back, so he can look down into those red, puffy eyes. She lets out a sad chuckle as he wipes away her tears with his thumb.

"What are _you _saying sorry for?" She offers a smile, even if it doesn't reach her eyes. "_I _was the one to show you up, that insulted your sister, that started the whole damned fight, because I don't know when to shut up."

"It's okay -" Charles says, shaking his head, tries to look reassuring, but Molly's shaking her head, cutting him off as her chin wobbles.

"No, it's not, because you're all perfect and proper, and I'm...well...I wanna stab people's eyes out with stupid forks."

Charles laughs at that, a soft sound Molly doesn't ever want to forget.

"Oh, Dawes, you just don't get it, do you? I _like_ that you wanna gauge eyeballs out. I like that you speak your mind, and talk in sentences that even you don't understand," his lips twitch upwards, thumb stroking her jawline soothingly. "I wish you could just see that."

"I just – when we were in Afghanistan, we were the same. I mean, we weren't, 'cause you were my boss, but we were there for the same reasons. Now that you ain't, and you're here, I'm worried you're gonna get bored of me, or something."

"Oh, Molly," Charles sighs, leans down to brush his lips against hers. "I'll never, ever, get bored of you."

"You got bored of Rebecca," Molly points out. "And you were married."

"There was more to it than that," Charles says, shaking his head gently. "I never truly loved her, not like I love you. Like I'll _always_ love you."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

"Even when I'm, like, really annoying and stuff?" Charles smirks as he leans down to press his mouth back onto Molly's, his lips moving against her firmly, to reassure her or to reassure himself, neither know, neither care.

"Even then," he mumbles against her, feels her lips curve below his before he pulls away to look into slightly brighter eyes.

"I really am sorry," she reiterates, hands reaching up to tangle in his hair. "I mean, just don't tell the Devil – sorry, sorry, I mean Emily! Just don't tell her, okay? Because she _did_ deserve it." He rolls his eyes at her and she can't help but feel stupid for her little outburst.

"I know you are," He nods, stroking her hair away from her face. "What do you say we go and get some lunch, huh? Just the two of us?" Molly raises an eyebrow, looks down at the top she's borrowing and then back up at him. "Just a McDonald's and a bottle of pepsi, I promise."

"Okay," she nods, rolls into a sitting position, glances at Charles over her shoulder as she gets up and grabs a pair of yoga pants. "But make it a drive through. I've been gone for three months, we have a lot of catching up to do," she adds, winking suggestively.

His sister says they wont make it, that she's just the rebound girl, out of his league. But Molly's going to use every damn ounce of herself to prove the woman wrong.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: So, I dunno. I wanted Molly's return to be a total fluff fest, but then, a bigger part of me didn't. <strong>

**So, their first argument; because we didn't get to really explore their relationship very well, it was hard for me to conjure an argument that 1) was canon and 2) could fit in with this series. So, put together my AU character, Emily, and Molly's insecurities about Charles being too good for her, and a little bit of that Dawes sass, and this is what happens!**

**Please review. I really hope I've done it justice!**

**Lacey. xx**


	8. Pregnant?

**AN: So here's another one shot. This isn't actually the one I wanted to be the next installment, but I've hit writers block halfway through the other chapter, and I guess these aren't really necessarily in a specific order, so this one can slot in here.**

**Please read and review. **

**Sorry this one is a bit 'gappy'. **

**Lacey. **

**xox**

* * *

><p><span><strong>Pregnant?<strong>

**C**harles sighs, rubs a hand over his tired face, stinging eyes focused solely on the blurring words he'd spent the past three hours typing into the Word document, only tears them away at the sound of the door to their on-suite bathroom opening.

"You look nice," he comments as Molly emerges from the room, an invisible puff of perfume following after her. His eyes trail from her barely made-up face, over the loose brown locks hanging around her shoulders, over the short, skin tight, red dress that leaves very little to the imagination. He feels a possessive pang of jealousy as he imagines other men looking at her the same way he is now.

"Cheers," she tosses over her shoulder at him, as she wrenches open the top drawer of her dresser, begins to search through the many pairs of socks and hosiery, apparently completely oblivious to her desirability.

"Remind me again; how is it that _you_ are going out with Amelia when she is one of _my_ friends?" he asks lightly, an eyebrow arching playfully as she turns to face him, closing the drawer before making her way towards the bed.

"Because I'm a girl, and you're -" she pauses for a dramatic effect, eyes him up and down, before grinning at him. "Not."

"That's sexist," he says, shaking his head a little, eyes following her every movement, as she lifts a leg to pull a stocking over her foot. She grins at his wanting gaze, eyes twinkling as she moves slowly, hands trailing over a smooth, tanned calf, over a moisturised knee, inches slowly up a slender, toned thigh, pushing her dress up as she goes.

"Yep," she says, voice low and rich. "But that's the whole point of a _Hen_ party," she points out, feels her tummy flutter when his eyes darken with arousal, her teasing having the desired effect. "Besides," she adds, casually shrugging her bare shoulder, whilst swapping to slide the stocking over the other foot. "You get to sit here and think about all the things you'd like to do to me when I get home."

His eyes widen briefly, and she chuckles, low and sexy, and then she's crawling across the bed, moving the computer from his lap so she can straddle him, dress riding up.

"You're a tease, Molly Dawes," he says, husky, as his hands rest on her thighs, palming the soft skin. She smiles, wraps her arms around his neck before leaning forward, brushing her lips against his, barely touching, earns a groan.

"If you like this dress," she purrs, moves her head so her breath tickles the shell of his ear, "You should see what I've got on under it."

He growls, deep and throaty, his hands moving to cup her face, to hold her in place as he crashes his mouth into hers, lips moving roughly against hers as her body arches, her chest pressing into his, her hands reaching up to tangle in his hair as one of his moves down her neck, across collarbone, brushes over breast.

The doorbell rings, and they're pulling apart, gasping for air, eyes dark and full of need. They consider ignoring it, for the briefest of seconds, but then it's ringing again, and Molly's heart rate has started to slow a little, and then it rings _again._

"I'll see you later," she breathes, the promise real as his thumb smooths over her swollen lower lip.

"Don't make me wait too long," he says playfully, before leaning forward, his mouth meeting hers again, softer this time, and she moans, pulls away, nodding.

"Yes, Boss," she says as she moves from his lap, straightens her dress, fixes her hair, and then heads for the door.

"Have fun," he calls after her, before grabbing for the computer again, wonders how he's going to make the next few hours pass when he can still taste her lip balm, when his lips still sting from the force of their kiss, when his body hums for hers.

* * *

><p><strong>H<strong>e's dozing on the sofa when the sound of the front door opening and swinging back against the wall with a loud _bang!_ makes him jump to his feet, heart hammering in his chest, hand reaching for a pistol he hasn't carried for at least 2 years. It takes a long moment for his brain to kick start, for awareness to seep through the sleepy haze, for him to realise where he is and who's standing in the doorway.

"Molly?"

He takes a step forward whilst his brain takes another moment to register her appearance; her skin is pale, almost white, brows pulled together as a trembling hand covers her mouth, the other clutching at her stomach. She raises a finger, reveals pursed lips, signals him to halt, to wait out, and then it's flying back to cover her mouth, and she's rushing for the downstairs toilet room, slams the door behind her. He blinks, glances from the closed door to the wide open front door, startles again when some one else approaches – no other than his sister, Emily.

"Ems?" Feels his brow slip, creases deepening, because he isn't sure if he's in some sot of alternate universe, or in the middle of a really weird, extremely vivid dream.

"Found her in the pub toilets," Emily greets him with, stepping through to the living area, arms cradling Molly's coat, bag and shoes before she's unloading them onto the white sofa. "Thought I should bring her home."

"Oh, uh, thanks," he stammers, shakes his head to clear what remains of the tired fog. "She's not been out long." He glances at the mantle clock to verify his statement. "An hour, to be precise."

"Well, you know what those Londoners are like," Emily says, smoothing back her already sleek hair. "They can't handle their drink." Charles sighs, rolling his eyes, tries not to focus on the sound of Molly emptying her stomach contents noisily in the small restroom. "I'm just saying," Emily carries on, holds her hands up in defence. "It's common knowledge; practically a statement of fact."

"Yeah, well, any way, thanks for bringing her home. I didn't even know you were in town tonight."

"Oh, I promised Amelia I would pop in for a quiet drink," Emily explains, waving a well manicured hand through the air.

"Do you have time for a coffee? I can turn the machine on," Charles offers, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder, pointing down the hall to the kitchen.

"Not tonight, sorry. I've got court early tomorrow, and Henry is in the car waiting for me," Emily pouts apologetically, makes a show of glancing at a watch that isn't there. "In fact, I'd better dash, I didn't even crank a window for him."

"All right, soon though, okay?" Charles smiles as his sister approaches him, wraps an arm around his shoulders for an awkward embrace, plants a kiss on his cheek. "Say hi to Henry for me."

"Of course," Emily nods, releasing her brother and heading for the still open oak door. "Tell Molly to drink lots of water, or she'll have an awful hang over tomorrow."

"I didn't know you cared," he teases, following her out.

"I don't," Emily quickly replies, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

"Good night, Ems," he calls after her, smiling to himself as he watches her walk down the garden path towards the black Audi parked behind his BMW, Henry's silhouette barely visible. She waves a hand behind her, to bid him farewell, and then she's sliding behind the wheel as he's closing the front door.

He sits on the bottom step of the staircase, waits for the sound of Molly's heaving to ease before he moves towards the closed door, raps his knuckles against it, softly, three times.

"Mol, you okay?" he calls through the solid wood, waits for three breaths, and then the handle turns and the door opens slowly, old hinges creaking. He looks down at red rimmed, shadowed eyes, at pale skin with a sheen of sweat that glistens in the soft glow from the wall lights.

"I don't feel good," she concludes, hand clutching at her stomach as if she's trying to hold herself together, the other holding onto the door frame so hard her knuckles turn white, as if she's struggling to keep herself upright.

"You've looked better," Charles nods in agreement, smiles softly, as he takes a step forward, snakes one arm around her waist and pulling her into him so he can take most of her weight as he leads her towards the stairs. They move slowly, stopping every third or fourth step as they wait for her stomach to settle again, breathing deep to prevent herself from turning inside out again, to avoid falling in to a fit of dry heaves as she gags for air. When they finally make it into the bedroom, he flicks on the bedside lamp and helps lower her onto the bed, doesn't miss the way she whimpers, how her skin seems to pale further as she forces air in and out of her body, fighting the urge to throw up again. He grabs the empty glass on her night stand, rushes into the bathroom to rinse it out a few times and refill with cold, fresh water.

"Here," he says as he returns it to the night stand. "Make sure you sip that, or you'll be headed for hangover street."

"Haven't been drinking," Molly mumbles, her eyes already sliding shut as she curls in on herself, arm still held to her body.

"Nothing at all?"

"No, Charles," she insists, buries her head deeper into the pillow, and he frowns, because that doesn't make sense. Must be stomach flu, or something. He pulls the thin, summer duvet over her small body, tucks her in loosely.

"Do you want anything?" He whispers as he crouches down beside her, pushes loose strands of hair from her damp face.

"Yeah, sleep," she groans, squeezing her eyes tighter shut, and Charles nods, even if she can't see it, and turns the lamp off as he straightens up. He feels his way around the bed, doesn't bother stripping off his sweats or t-shirt, slides under the duvet and shifts so his body presses against hers, slides his arm over her clenched one and can practically feel the muscles relaxing at his touch.

"I'll cancel dinner tomorrow," he whispers into her ear, but she's moving her head, a shallow shake 'no'.

"Don't. Go," she breathes, and the request is so raw, there's no way he could turn it down.

"Shh," he soothes, presses his lips to her temple. "Go to sleep." He waits for the shortest amount of time, and then her eyelids stop fluttering, her breathing turns slow and rhythmic, and he knows she's drifted off into sleep.

He doesn't leave her side for the entire night.

* * *

><p>"<strong>C<strong>harles!" Catherine grins as she pulls open the heavy, front door. "It's lovely to see you."

"Hi, Mum," he greets, stepping over the threshold, into the house he'd called home not too many months ago, and into the outstretched arms of his Mother. He hugs her tightly, albeit briefly, inhales the Chanel No5 perfume that will always remind him of her and her alone. "How are you?" he asks as he steps back, shrugging out of his jacket to hang it on the coat rack.

"Oh, you know," Catherine waves her hand, before beckoning him to follow her into the living room, where his Father, George, and Emily are sat together on the two seater, deep in conversation over the countries current politics. "George, look who's made it."

Icy blue eyes tear away from Emily, land on Charles, empty and confused.

"Hi, Dad," he nods, offers a smile, and then, as if a switch has been flicked, George smiles that familiar, toothy grin, his eyes crinkling.

"Charles! My boy!" George booms, holding out a large, calloused hand. "I haven't see you for..." he trails off, and Charles can see those eyes darkening again, so he steps forward, takes the still offered hand, gives one, firm shake.

"Too long," he finishes for him, before standing back and looking at Catherine, her eyes misted, glassy. She offers a watery smile, before turning back to leave the living room. Charles follows her, hands shoved deep into his jeans pockets, watches as she moves into the kitchen and begins busying herself.

"Mum, what just happened with Dad -" Charles begins, but Catherine is cutting him off.

"No Molly today?"

"No, she's at home with a bug, or something," Charles explains. "She said to say sorry, that she'll make it next time. So, Dad -"

"Such a shame," Catherine shakes her head, though her face says she understands. "I like that girl. She's got sass."

"Who's got sass?" Emily asks as she steps into the kitchen, an empty coffee mug in her hand.

"Molly, dear," Catherine answers before pulling a steamy shepherds pie from the oven, the rich aroma of meat, herbs and gravy making Charles' mouth water and stomach grumble.

"What she's got is a raging hangover," Emily scoffs, putting her mug into the dishwasher, eyes glancing at Charles as he quickly corrects her.

"She's sick, Em. She didn't touch a drop last night."

"Of course not," Emily rolls her eyes, arches an eyebrow.

"She said she didn't, and I believe her." Charles grinds out. "I don't know why you have such a low opinion of her, when all she's done is try -"

"Okay, dinner is ready, so feel free to join your Father and I just as soon as you've finished bickering," Catherine interrupts, taking the pie with her, hands gloved, through to the dining room.

"Look, I was there last night, you weren't. There are only two reasons for someone getting as sick as Molly did in such a short space of time, and neither of those involve a stomach virus." Emily folds her arms across her chest defensively.

"What are you trying to say, Emily," Charles sighs, because if there's anything Emily is normally good at, it's being direct – what with being a Judge and all that.

"I'm saying that sudden onset nausea is usually brought on by either ingesting a large quantity of a poisonous substance – in this case, alcohol – or..." she trails off, one hand working free to swoop in front of her.

"Or..."

"Seriously?" she asks, waits for him to twig, to fill in the gaps. "Oh, come on!" Emily exclaims, both hands flying upwards in exasperation, when Charles stares at her blankly. "Oh boy," she mutters, shaking her head, saunters past him and heads into the dining room, Charles following, where their parents are already seated, dishing their dinners.

"Finished arguing?" Catherine smiles at them as they both slip into a dining chair each.

"We weren't arguing, Mother," Emily says, reaching for the dish of broccoli as Charles goes for the pie. "We were discussing your grandchildren, actually."

"No we weren't," Charles says, his brows pulling together at Emily's outright lie, because she's always been bluntly honest, as they swap dishes to serve up.

"_Yes_, we were," Emily says pointedly, before popping a broccoli floret into her mouth.

"Oh, really? How is that wonderful grandson of mine?" Catherine turns to Charles as she reaches over to pour him a glass of wine.

"He's fine, Mum. But that's not what we -"

"Mum, can you remember being pregnant?" Emily asks over Charles, her eyes sliding to him even as she speaks to her Mother, before flicking back to her.

"Oh, of course I do, Dear," Catherine nods. "They were the best times of my life."

"Didn't you say that you were really sick with one of us?" she continues, smirking slightly. "Which one was it?"

"That was you, Emmy," Catherine laughs lightly. "They say girls are the worst."

"Right, I remember. It was really sudden, right? No forewarnings."

"That's right. God knows why it's called 'morning sickness' when it can strike any time of the day, and last all damned day," Catherine says, swaps the desert spoon in Georges hand for a fork, pats it reassuringly. Charles doesn't miss the exchange, no matter how subtle his Mother had tried to be. "Why, are you trying to tell me something, dear?"

"Oh, no," Emily shakes her head quickly, holds her hand up. "Not me." Charles swallows against the sudden lump forming in his throat as Emily's eyes move back to connect with his, her eyebrow raised, and he vaguely remembers a very similar conversation happening almost ten years ago, because he'd been blind to it then, too.

He barely speaks for the remainder of the short visit, barely touches his food. He accepts the plate Catherine had dished for Molly, had sneakily piled on some extra broccoli for the iron, as he tried, and failed, to do the math in his head. He tries to ignore the distant look in his Father's eyes, the way Emily has that knowing smirk, the way his Mother holds on extra tight when he hugs her good bye.

He heads home, via the nearest pharmacy, and gets through the front door in record breaking time.

* * *

><p>"<strong>W<strong>ell?" he asks as soon as the door to their on-suite opens, and a tired, pale Molly Dawes emerges from it.

"I don't know," Molly shrugs in an attempt to seem casual, even if Charles can read the emotions she tries to hide in her eyes.

"Why not?" he frowns, takes a step closer to her as she holds the box up in one hand, and the white stick in the other.

"Because, we need to wait, like, three minutes, and it's barely been one."

"Okay," he nods, accepting that as a reasonable explanation, rubs a hand over his stubble, through his hair, as she stands there, looking up at him, chin wobbling slightly as she worries her bottom lip. "I'll set a timer on my phone," he decides, moving to his bedside table where his phone is connected to the charger. Molly moves to her side of the bed, climbs on to the mattress and waits for Charles to do the same, so she can rest against him, literally lean on him.

Silence spills into the room as they relax back against the headboard, the test on the bed between them, face down to avoid any sneaky peeks.

"This is bat shit crazy," Molly says, breaking the silence after twenty long seconds. "I mean, I'm on the pill! You can't just turn up and demand I pee on a stick because I've been a bit sick."

"Just humour me," Charles says. "What's the harm?"

"It's extremely unlikely. Like, 0.1% chance, or something," Molly mutters.

"You were on antibiotics a couple weeks ago," Charles points out, can remember her complaining about the pill being less effective so they had to be extra good, or something.

"I never missed a dose," she continues anyway. "And we were careful. We _are_ careful. I don't even see the point," she lunges for the test, but Charles catches her hand in his.

"Molly -"

"Let's just throw it away, pretend this never fucking happened," she almost begs, eyes pleading with his, but he can see the fear she tries to hide. He wraps his arm around her, tugs her into his body, feels her melt into him.

"We've got this," he murmurs into her hair, before pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

"Why are you so calm about this? I'm on contraception to avoid these kinds of situations. I mean, shit. I grew up with a houseful of kids, you know? I'm not sure I want that – that I'm ready for that. We're so soddin' careful, and why the Hell ain't you freakin' out? I'm definitely freaking out," Molly rambles. "Holy shit."

"Because," Charles begins, trailing off slightly, and Molly shifts so she can look up at him.

"Because?"

"We've been together for a couple of years, we own a house, share the bills; maybe this is the next step for us?" he offers with a shrug, almost instantly regrets his words as Molly's eyes bug wide, shifting a little further so she can turn to face him.

"Next step?" she squeaks, is mentally glad none of her Army buddies will ever get to hear her right now. "The next step would be to get a friggin' puppy, or a kitten, or a bloody hamster."

"So what are you saying?" Charles asks, eyebrows knitting together as his eyes flick to her stomach, linger for a second, before connecting back with hers. "If you are, you don't want it?"

"There is no 'it'," she says, but she doesn't sound so sure, because her mind is racing through a million possibilities right now.

A baby; half Molly and half Charles. _Their_ baby.

Maybe, as long as it was more of him and less of her, she supposes it wouldn't be a complete disaster...

"If I had to chose anyone in the whole, wide world to knock me up, it'd be you," she decides, but before Charles can reply, the timer on his phone vibrates through the air around them. Molly swallows hard, before reaching for the test. Charles moves faster, though, encases her hand with his own, whilst the other moves to tilt her head as she looks back at him in confusion.

His mouth meets hers softly, lips moving slowly and gently, the complete opposite to the usual kisses they share, so full of heat and want and need. This one is different; full of love, and acceptance, and everything else he wishes to say but can never find the words. They break apart for air, and Molly's left feeling completely in love - like together, they could handle anything, take on the impossible.

Even a baby.

"Ready?" he asks, his breath tickling her moist lips, and she shakes her head 'no', even as she says,

"Okay."

He smiles at her, drops a quick kiss on her nose, before reaching for the test, grabbing it in his large hands, both holding their breath as he mentally counts to three, then flips it over in one swift movement so they can both look down at the result.


	9. Yours

**AN: Here's the final instalment. It's not 'finished', but my block isn't shifting, so I've just decided to post it as it is. I figured it was fitting to end the series at Christmas, as that's (kind of) where it started!**

**I have some other pieces half finished on my computer that I'll try to get finished soon, or I may post them as they are. **

**Please read and review!**

**Merry Christmas!**

**Lacey**

**xo**

* * *

><p><span><strong>Yours<strong>

_'Love is a partnership of two unique people who bring out the very best of each other,_

_and who know that, even though they are wonderful as individuals,_

_they are even better together.'_

_-Barbara Cage_

"Eurgh, make it stop," Molly groans, her body writhing as she twists to bury her face into Charles' bare chest; an attempt to block out the small, green light as it consistently throbs in the darkness, accompanying the shrill alarm that's begun it's assault on the otherwise quiet bedroom. "Turn it off," she grinds when he doesn't stir, but she's too impatient to wait for him to wake. She blindly reaches across his body, arm stretching as she pats around the nightstand until her fingers find the relentlessly vibrating, offending object. She peeks through long lashes, opening one eye just enough to see as she swipes the pad of her thumb across the screen to shut the ringing down, before stuffing the mobile under Charles' pillow, just in case it decides to start up again.

She settles herself back down, body shifting against his as she droops one arm over his naked, hard torso, tangles her legs with his and sighs sleepily as her head comes to rest in the perfectly shaped hollow just beneath Charles' collarbone.

She's close to slipping back into a dreamless slumber when she feels his arm shift behind her, his hold tightening, pulling her impossibly closer as his hand presses to the small of her back. The movement is small, casual, with no intentions other than to feel her close to him, to remind him she's still there, as he does every morning they're together, but the contact is enough to send delighted shivers through her body, to stir something deep in her belly the way that only Charles can.

She focuses on the pattern of breathing, inhale; exhale, tries to force herself to fall back into the peaceful sleep, but he is _right there_, palm burning hot against her spine, his sleepy caresses waking every nerve in her body and sending them into frenzied anticipation as he lazily traces messy circles over her skin with his thumb.

She opens her eyes, wide awake now, tilts her head back to get a clear view of his face, his features illuminated by the soft glow of the slowly rising, winter sun. As if he can sense her looking at him, his mouth smirks a little and his lids peel back so he can gaze down at her.

"You're the one who said yes, remember?" He says, an eyebrow twitching slightly as his hand stills on her back, and she pokes him in the ribs playfully, bottom lip pouting slightly at his honesty.

"I didn't realise it would be so early," she replies, and he chuckles, body rumbling in an entirely delicious way, eyes crinkling in amusement. Her lips tilt in response, even as she plants a soft kiss on his chest, an attempt to hide the smile. She takes a brief second to inhale him, absorb the subtle remnants of Hugo Boss, Lynx body wash and heroism - the latter being a scent she's sure only she can detect.

"You know what Mum's like; she'll want us there before nine," he replies as he begins to trace a new, delicate pattern on her hip, and her body shivers again. She rests her head back, allows her eyelids to slide closed as she presses her body impossibly closer, so there's not a hairs breadth between them.

"Someone really should tell her that Christmas is an all day event," Molly only half jokes, her fingertips stroking across the old scar pulled tight over Charles' hip, the mark a constant reminder of the day they'd almost lost each other. "I was looking forward to a lie in for once."

"You always sleep in," Charles scoffs, and Molly shifts to meet his eyes again.

"Not on Christmas," she corrects with a small shake of her head. "The kids are always too excited. I'd be lucky to blag a couple hours kip back in London."

"Of course," he nods, understanding, his eyes darkening a little because he'd almost forgotten what it was like to have an over excited child around for the festive period; it's been too long since he'd had the pleasure of Sam waking him up stupidly early on Christmas morning.

"I'll sleep in next year," she hurries to say, shrugging, watches as the sorrow and regret recedes from Charles' eyes.

"I'll make sure of it," he promises, leans down to press his lips to Molly's forehead. "We'll put it in our vows."

Molly stills, eyes widening at the suggestion of the possibility of upcoming nuptials as she waits for him to correct himself, to realise what he's said, to stammer and fall over words as they fail to come to him in a completely geeky way. Charles' mouth falls slack, lips part, eyes unblinking as they stay trained on Molly.

"Uh," she clears her throat, breaking the silence as she scratches at her scalp, begins to untangle her silky smooth legs from his hairy ones, says in a too casual tone to be casual, "I'll get started on the coffee -" She makes an attempt to move away, but his hand presses against her back, firmly, arm tightening, refusing to let her go.

"Dawes," he breathes softly, before pausing as his eyes trace her face, his teeth nibble at his lower lip and his brow creases slightly, as if he's unsure, trying to work her out, work out what to say. She freezes. Goosebumps prickle her skin, though his body offers her comforting warmth, as she waits for him to continue, even as the room, once again, falls quiet enough for her to hear their shallow breathing.

"What?" She finally asks, nervous, because he's gazing at her so intensely, it sends electric pulses up her spine; like he's staring at the most precious thing on Earth, like he's in awe of her, completely spellbound.

He blinks, and it's gone.

"Nothing," he shakes his head, his hold loosening enough for her to get up if she wishes, allowing her to leave their bed - the place they feel safe and whole and together, the place they spill their secrets and confess their sins, share their nightmares and conjure dreams, where they become the truest, purest forms of themselves.

"Oh, come off it," she scoffs, "What's the matter?"

"No, nothing," Charles shakes his head. "I just -"

"Shit," Molly breathes, cutting him off. "You've got an STI, ain't ya?"

"What?" Charles chokes, eyes widening as she watches Molly sit up, turn to face him completely.

"Well, c'mon then. Which one is it?" She demands, eyebrows arched. "Chlamydia? Gonorrhea? Sypha -"

"Molly, no!" Charles cuts her off, eyes crinkling in amusement, lips twitching as he shakes his head. He pushes himself up, so he's sitting too. "I don't have an STI."

"It ain't nothing to be embarrassed about if-"

"Dawes," he says again. "I just wanted to say thank you for spending time with my family today."

"Oh," Molly says, then breathes, "Oooh," as a wave of relief pounds into her, his words sinking in. "You muppet. You don't have to thank me, I love your parents. Even Emily is becoming tolerable," she teases, leaning forward to brush her lips against his. "As long as I get to come home with you, I don't care where we spend Christmas." She shrugs a shoulder, face as serious as it gets, doesn't even realise Charles' breath has caught in his throat at her words, that he can feel himself falling head over heels all over again at that simple sentence, because that's so typically Molly; being so completely, irrefutably romantic without even realising it, without even trying and then being completely oblivious to it. He's one hundred percent certain, no ounce of a doubt, that if he had said the same thing to her, she'd spend an immeasurable amount of time teasing him relentlessly for being a soppy bugger.

"What?" Molly chuckles lightly, the laughter trailing off though it's glow doesn't leave her face as her brow creases, head tilting slightly, confusion teasing her features, because he's looking at her like _that_ again, as if he's mesmerized, dazzled by her. "Seriously, Charlie, what is going on with you?"

There's a brief pause, his eyes scan her face; up and down, back and forth, eyes, mouth, back to her eyes again, as if he's waiting for a sign, for her to signal for him to continue, but she doesn't because she isn't sure what he should be continuing.

"Okay," he nods, holds up a finger in the space between them. "Hold on." Only after he receives a nod in return does he twist his body away from her, leans over and reaches for the nightstand. His fingers make quick work of the underside, and Molly tries to sneak a peek at what he's doing at the sound of tape peeling, but his body is positioned perfectly to shield her view. Eventually, after only a minute or so, though it feels like an eternity, he straightens up, his fist balled as it holds onto something tight. Molly's heart squeezes, the rate of beats picking up quickly.

"Charlie -"

"I love you," he cuts her off, voice shaking slightly, though his eyes look determined.

"I know," she smiles, nodding, as the morning light pushes against the darkness, though her brow stays slightly creased in puzzlement at his sudden cryptic behaviour. She waits for him to proceed, to explain himself, but he doesn't. Instead, he leans forward, presses his mouth against hers firmly, hungrily, like he's trying to mash into her, mould them into one. It takes a second of hesitation, and then she's kissing him back just as fiercly, all teeth and tongue, her hands reaching up to rub against the scruff along his jawline, smooth against rough, body arching into his, closing the gap between them. Morning breath be dammed.

He pulls away from her, and she almost whimpers, the thoughts of sleep and early mornings and families temporarily forgotten as her brain turns into a hazy mess of lust and passion. He smoothes a thumb over her bottom lip, swollen from the force of his mouth, and she waits for him to kiss her again, to set her body on fire the way she loves. But he doesn't move. He stays there, silently watching her, eyes glistening in the light. It isn't until her heart rate has slowed and breathing returned somewhere near normal that he moves, like he can tell, read her that easy.

He lifts his hand - the one that had been balled into a fist only moments ago - holds its between their bodies; a movement that doesn't grab Molly's attention until it stays there, poised, forefinger and thumb pinching something that glints in the bare, wintery rays.

She swallows as her gaze falls on to the ostentatious, emerald cut, white diamond presented in the thin, silvery band. Charles clears his throat as his hand trembles.

"Will you marry me?"

Molly stares at him in shock, her fingers digging into his shoulders as she clutches on to him, eyes darting from the ring, to his face and back again a few times.

"I know it hasn't been long, and you're young, and this isn't because you chose my family over yours this Christmas. I _do_ love you, Molly, and I know it's a lot, and this isn't very romantic, _at all_, and I do have a box, but I knew you'd probably find it, so it was easier just to sellotape the ring to -"

"Yes," Molly says, quietly, swallowing hard.

"- the nightstand where you wouldn't dream of looking, so Emily has the box, because I was going to ask you at dinner -"

"Yes," Molly says again, louder, clearer, grabs his attention as the words come to a halt, his eyes bugging and mouth falling slack.

"Yes?" he repeats, his face moulding into something near wonder. "Really?" As if he can't quite believe her answer. Molly can't help but laugh, loud and full; the kind of laughter that escapes when you're happy and excited and little bit hysterical.

"_Yes!_" She reiterates, drops her hand from his shoulder and holds it next to his, fingers splayed, waiting for him to slip the ring on.

He stares at her for another moment, eyes wide as if he's having trouble processing her answer, as if he's having trouble wrapping his mind around the ease in which she's agreed to commit herself to him for the rest of her life. But her hand trembles as she holds it there, and her eyes twinkle and cheeks are rosy, and it's taking everything in her not to pounce on him and kiss him until she just can't anymore.

With the same amount of focus and dedication he'd used on the many patrols in Afghanistan, he takes hold of her hand in his own, and slips the cool metal over her warm finger, slotting it into place as if it's made to be there.


End file.
